Shadows of Feathers
by punkerbones
Summary: When it becomes necessary to call in the elite of both the United States and the United Kingdom, the only thing that remains is shadows.
1. Chapter 1

Searing hot rays of sunlight beat down on the dust choked road. Cries of surprise and horror rang out, only to be almost immediately drowned out by the sharp clatter of gunfire. The air warped and danced in the heat of the South American Sun, twisting around with the pale dust.

It was the same heat that Angela swore was about to slowly burn the life right out of her, starting with her lungs.

The whole mission had gone south. The whole damn mission had gone south. Her handler, for lack of a better term, was dead. It had been mercifully quick, but no less horrifying. Angela had tried to drag him out of the ambush, away from the deafening gunfire, only to feel the stinging hot bite of bits of metal and the rocky road as they struck her face, propelled forward by the hail of bullets.

Now she was running, her feet pounding the gravel, the weight of her body armor feeling heavier and heavier with each step. Her lungs were burning and her eyes watered fiercely. Angela wasn't sure if it was from the dusty heat, or the tears shed over her fallen handler.

Tightly held underneath her left arm was a ruggedized laptop, and there was a deep gouge in the casing, but otherwise the laptop was safe. While her survival instinct screamed at her to drop the laptop, throw it off into an alley somewhere, and to lose the excess weight, Angela knew better. Her job, her duty, was to get this laptop back to Delta Team Steel. Once she got the laptop to them, she could go home. She could go back to air conditioning, her asphalt-black coffee, and her annoying, Italian neighbor with the obnoxiously loud Chihuahua.

()

Across town, it sounded like all Hell had broken loose. The distant chatter of gunfire caused Captain John "Soap" MacTavish to grip the foregrip of the M4A1 a little tighter. Behind him, Sergeant Gary "Roach" Sanderson looked forward, towards the sound of the gunfire.

"Sounds like somebody beat us to the party," he muttered.

()

They were closing in, slowly but surely. Angela could hear them behind her, yelling in a language she didn't understand. Every now and then, though, she could hear them throw in some threats in English...mostly about cutting her tongue out.

She was armed, but nowhere near as strongly as she would have liked to have been. Her sole weapon was a Smith & Wesson 9mm, complete with an extra clip. Given the fact that it looked like her pursuers were carrying at least AK-47s if not worse, Angela strongly doubted that she stood a chance. Besides, what was she supposed to do when she ran out of bullets? Throw the laptop at them?

As the device began to feel heavier and heavier, Angela thought to herself that hurling the laptop at the closest attacker might actually be a viable option.

Glancing down at her watch, she hissed a vile curse between her panting. She had missed her extraction time by a good thirty minutes by now. At this point, all she could do was hope that they would organize some sort of squad to get her out of this hellhole. It was a very rare day when she missed an extraction time, and Angela had prided herself on being punctual.

Somebody was going to bleed for this.

()

The gunfire was growing closer, and now Soap could hear the angry shouts of the local gang members. They were after something. And they were chasing that something with fierce persistence.

As far as Soap knew, he and Roach had managed to slip into the town unnoticed. They were here to keep weapons that had no business being in this town in the first place from going to their destination.

Roach was quiet, but dared a glance outside, the sunlight glinting off of his sweat-streaked face. His face looked calm, but his eyes kept searching the rooftops for any gang member that might be taking aim at either of them. They were on the second floor of a dilapidated housing complex, and while the elevation kept them relatively safe from enemies on the ground, anybody on the roofs could have spotted them.

And the gunfire drew even closer.

Now the voices were easily audible, and threats in English could be heard through the shouting and ruckus.

Crouching down, Soap motioned for Roach to follow. The gang members were almost right below them, and Soap had no intention of drawing any unnecessary attention. So long as the gunmen kept going after whatever they were chasing, and that something wasn't Soap and Roach, things would progress smoothly.

()

She had to keep running. It didn't quite matter where by this point, so long as she could keep running away from her pursuers. Angela darted down alleys and sprinted down the small, broken streets, the laptop hammering against her side. By this point, her boots felt like bricks nailed to her feet, sharp jabs of pain shooting up through her arches.

Slamming against the door, Angela crashed into a small, recently abandoned house. She shut the door behind her as fast and best she could, trying to conceal her tracks. Staggering up the stairs, she crawled up the last three steps, still tightly clinging to the ruggedized laptop. Racing through a tiny kitchen, heading for an open door, another barrier she could put between herself and the gunmen, Angela heard a sound so quiet that the gunfire, shouting, and the pounding in her ears almost drowned it out.

But the sound was unmistakable and it stopped her dead in her tracks.

It was the metallic clink of a rifle being set to fire.

Her heart leapt into her chest, and Angela darted to the wall, lightly pressing her back to the peeling wallpaper and splintered wood. Her right hand had already freed her pistol from its holster, and the laptop was gripped tightly in her left hand. Some unfound strength was keeping both of her arms steady, and Angela fought to ignore the beads of sweat that trickled down her face.

She could hear somebody on the other side of the wall, but it was just one person. Angela could handle one person. Lord knew she had handled much worse…

Whispering something under her breath, Angela judged where the other person was, then swung around the threshold, pistol drawn. She swung the laptop upward, a small sliver of satisfaction coming from the thudding sound as the laptop's casing made contact. It was then, with dawning horror, Angela realized there were two of them. Two gunmen. The other was a few feet behind the first.

Angela had always been fast, but right now, she couldn't be fast enough. She snapped the pistol up, aiming it at the second gunmen. He already had his weapon trained on her…and he was shouting at her in English. Clear, precise English.

"Drop it!" he barked. There was a distinct British accent in his voice.

Her chest was heaving by this point, but she kept her pistol trained on the blonde-haired soldier.

"Who are you?" she demanded angrily.

"I said drop it!" the man shouted again, taking a step forward.

It was then that Angela realized the man she had initially hit was slowly getting up. She realized it too late.

He lunged forward, grabbing Angela's arm and twisting it fiercely, her hand uncontrollably releasing her pistol, the gun and laptop clattering to the floor. Muffling a yelp, Angela shoved against the man, trying to throw him off balance and free her arm. She stomped on his foot viciously, struggling against his tightening grip.

"You got her?" the blonde haired soldier asked.

"Aye, I got her."

The second man had an unmistakable Scottish accent laced in his voice, but the idea that Angela was caught only made her angrier. Yes, she was currently trapped, but she'd be damned if she didn't go down without a fight.

She struggled again, and this time, her attacker jerked her back against him, pinning her with his forearm pressed across her throat. He was trying to get her to black out. Using her last bit of strength, Angela clawed at the man's arm, getting her head free enough to bite him. Hard.

The man cursed angrily, but didn't completely relinquish his grip. Instead, he whirled Angela around and slammed her against the wall. The impact made the wall shudder, and the back of Angela's head cracked against the wood. Red and white spots flashed in front of her eyes.

And then the mercilessly cold barrel of a pistol was pressed underneath her chin.

Angela glared upward at her attacker, finally able to see him completely. His skin was streaked with dirt and sweat, his reddish brown hair cut into a short Mohawk. A five o' clock shadow completed the look, and he glared down at her with piercingly blue eyes.

Blood trickled down from the bridge of his nose, and his bottom lip was split slightly, blood welling up in the injury.

"Who are you?" he hissed.

"You all right, Soap?" the blonde haired soldier asked, keeping his rifle trained on Angela.

"Bloody bitch bit me!" he retorted angrily.

Angela glanced to the man's shoulder, her eyes narrowing at the sight of a British flag sewn onto the sleeve.

"You're British?" Angela finally wheezed, having to keep her head cocked at an awkward angle with the barrel of the pistol pushing against her chin.

Turning his scowl back to the woman, Soap studied her for a few minutes. She was subdued, for now. His bottom lip was already feeling hot, the coppery taste of blood running across his tongue. To top it all off, he could feel the bridge of his nose pulsing with pain, a trickle of blood running down his nose.

Soap had been hit by a myriad of weapons, but he couldn't remember the last time that he'd been assaulted with a laptop.

She was surprisingly strong, for somebody who looked so scrawny. Her short, blonde hair was matted and plastered against her head, and there were thin bloody scratches on her pale face. Her dark blue eyes stared at Soap expectantly.

Soap continued to look her over. There was blood all over her fatigues, and a small United States flag was sewn neatly on the chest of her vest. But she wasn't military. The lack of any sort of indication of rank, not to mention the rather sloppy, albeit fierce, way she fought, was a testament to that.

But she had stopped her struggling, for now, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Soap eyed the dark blood stains again, then stared the woman in the eyes.

"You injured?" he muttered.

"Huh?"

Soap motioned to the blood stains. A look of pain flashed across the woman's face, but not that of physical pain. Soap understood what had happened before she even spoke.

"No. It's not my blood."

Soap fought back the almost automated response of apologizing. He bitterly reminded himself that protocol had to override basic human compassion.

"All right," Soap said slowly, giving the woman a steely glare. "I'm going to take the gun away. Don't even think about trying to run."

Looking over at the other soldier, his rifle still trained on her, Angela nodded her head awkwardly. Slowly, Soap withdrew the gun.

"What's your name?" he asked, keeping his voice low. The gunfire was slowly moving off to the other side of town, along with the yelling, but Soap wasn't keen on taking any chances.

"Angela. I need to get in touch with Captain Sinclair." Her voice was raspy, but steady.

"What were you doing here?" interjected the blonde-haired soldier.

Soap and Angela looked in the direction of the other soldier, slowly he was letting his rifle point downwards.

"Keep your eye on her, Roach," Soap said, reaching into his pocket.

Angela instinctively tensed. Her gun was still on the floor, and there was no way she was going to be able to grab it in time.

"If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already," Soap muttered. He produced a black zip tie, and Angela smiled faintly.

"No risks, huh?" she asked quietly, slowly holding out her wrists.

"Can't risk you running off," Soap grumbled. He paused slightly when he grabbed Angela's wrists. There was an odd scarring pattern ringing both of her wrists, the pale marks barely visible. Ignoring them for now, Soap tied the zip tie around Angela's wrists, binding them tightly, but taking care not to cut off circulation. So far, she was cooperating. Soap just hoped she didn't have rabies.

"What happened?" Soap asked, patting her down carefully.

"There's a knife on my waist, right side," Angela said slowly, keeping her eyes forward. "And another strapped to my left ankle. I was here with my partner. He got shot by the gang members you no doubt heard. I _have_ to get myself and that laptop back to Captain Sinclair. I've missed my extraction point and time by a good hour by this point."

Sure enough, Soap found the two knives. Her left leg was bruised up fiercely, and there was bruising on her right hip, but other than that, she didn't appear to be injured. Aside from the knives and the pistol, she wasn't armed. She had been relying on her partner to bring the firepower…

"Well, we've got a job to do, and I've no intention of letting it go unfinished. Like it or not, you're coming along for the ride," Soap replied, standing up. He picked up the laptop, glaring at it, then un-shouldered the small backpack he carried. Angela started to say something, but Soap held up a hand, stopping her.

"If you turn out to be who you say you are, you'll get this back," he said, putting the backpack back on. He looked at Angela directly. "You have my word."

Angela sighed inwardly, but said nothing. She was in no place to argue. Soap deftly picked up her pistol and holstered it against the vest he was wearing.

"Let's go. Break's over."

Soap moved forward, and Angela followed obediently, staying crouched down, and Roach fell into step behind them. For a brief moment of insanity, Angela considered lunging for Soap's backpack and fighting for the laptop, but the aching pains that were slowly eating their way up through her body told her she would do no such thing.

"Well, the good news is that you created enough of a bloody ruckus that there should be little resistance," Soap said sardonically.

Roach chuckled quietly in response, but Angela stayed silent. She was mentally berating herself for being so stupid as to blindly attack an unseen assailant. Sure, she could blame it on an adrenaline rush, but she was damn lucky to have run into men that appeared to be from a country that was friendly to the United States. If had been members of the favela gang…

"Hold up."

Angela stopped, her breathing finally having returned to normal. The heat was still stifling, but at least now she wasn't running for her life. And at least now, there were two other people to keep the enemy occupied, as grim as that outlook seemed.

They were stopped outside a fairly inconspicuous, single-story building, bullet holes riddling the walls. Soap glanced over his shoulder. He hadn't planned on the possibility of picking up extra baggage on this mission, and while Roach looked fine, albeit a little sunburned, Angela was looking dangerously pale. She must have severely over-exerted herself in the past couple of hours, and now she was feeling the after effects of it.

Soap stared at the door, then motioned for both Angela and Roach to stay put. He didn't want to have Angela running off, or worse. Roach seemed surprised and mildly upset by the order, but kept quiet, not wanting to give away any element of surprise they may have.

Soap went through the door quietly, and for a few moments, there was nothing but silence. Then, the faint sound of music being filtered through earbuds hummed into the air. Crouching down, hiding behind a wooden crate, the paint stating what was in the box so faded it was almost completely gone, Soap waited, listening as the noise got louder. From the other room, another gunman strolled into view. He was obviously far too intent on listening to his music, and while it made him a piss-poor guard, it almost made him an exceptionally easy target.

Slowly drawing the knife from its sheath strapped to his leg, Soap watched the guard as he bounced slightly back and forth in tune to the music. The creaking of the wood provided a little bit of noise to mask the sound of the metallic grating as the blade slipped free from the sheath. The guard was still oblivious, staring out a window across the sun bleached buildings.

Soap moved forward, and moved forward fast. He grabbed the guard by the forehead, pulling his head back fiercely, ramming the blade through the back of the man's neck. The sound of bone cracking and the guard's choking on his own blood drowning out the music through the earbuds. The guard struggled violently for a few minutes, clawing at the blade that was jutting from his throat, but Soap held the man steady. After a few minutes, the man fell limp, collapsing to the floor. Soap struggled to keep the man from making a loud thud as he fell, letting the body quietly crumple.

Freeing the blade from the guard's throat, Soap looked around, his eyes narrowing. This was the building, no doubt about it, but there was a decided lack of weapons. There were a few boxes tucked away against the walls, maybe ten at the most, but each one was pried open, straw and packing materials dangling out of the opened boxes.

"Roach, it's clear," Soap said lowly. "Bring the laptop lunatic, too."

Angela and Roach walked into the building, Angela first, with Roach keeping a close eye on her. Soap glanced over at them, then looked around the floor. Roach seemed confused, looking around slowly.

"Uh, sir," he said. "Where are the guns?"

"Gone," Soap grumbled, rubbing the toe of one of his boots against the dusty outline of a now missing box. "Looks like we were too late. Dammit."

"Those aren't it?" Angela asked, looking at Soap cautiously. She motioned to one of the other boxes.

"Doubt it, girlie," Soap replied. "Looks like each one's been gutted."

"There's not even anything left save for the bloody packaging," Roach hissed, kicking one of the boxes. "We should get the hell out of here before our little favela friends come back."

"Aye," Soap started for the door, then stopped, looking over at Angela. She was still looking particularly pale, red tinges of a sunburn creeping up around her cheeks and nose. Angela looked up at Soap, dirt caked around her sapphire eyes and chapped lips. "You all right, girlie?"

Angela stared at Soap for a few minutes, then nodded, wiping the dirt off of her face. Roach looked at Soap, then peered out the door.

"Sir, if we're going to go, we'd best go now."

Soap moved forward, Angela falling in step, with Roach following closely behind. They made their way down an alleyway, Soap cursing their intel every step of the way. They had been at least twenty-four hours late, if not more. The gang members had managed to cart out the weaponry, and ammunition, if there had been any. And all Soap had to show for it was a busted lip, bloodied nose, and an angry, blonde-haired American.


	2. Chapter 2

The town was thankfully quiet, the locals too terrified to be anything but onlookers. As Soap and Roach neared the jeep they had arrived in, Soap turned to Angela, who was already slowing her pace.  
>"You know the drill?" Soap asked, pulling off the keffiyeh wrapped around his neck.<p>

Sighing, Angela nodded her head and turned around. Roach looked at Soap, shrugging slightly under the weight of his gear.

"That necessary, sir?"

"You'd rather take the chance?" Soap asked. He tied the keffiyeh around Angela's eyes, trying to keep it snug and not hurt her at the same time.

Roach was silent, glancing around. Only a few locals were daring to peek out of the windows at the sight.

Soap finished tying the blindfold, then waved his hand in front of Angela's face. She didn't flinch. Soap guided her to the jeep. Angela staggered, trying to feel her way around the vehicle. It was at that point Soap realized it might have been better to just blindfold her _after_ she had gotten in the jeep.

"You all right with her taking shotgun?" Soap asked Roach, grinning faintly.

"Eh, just this once," Roach replied, climbing into the back of the jeep. Angela managed to make her way into the passenger's seat, with Soap taking the driver's seat. The vehicle turned over without a problem, and Soap began driving the vehicle through the dusty, broken streets. Angela leaned her head back. Soap had to give her credit. She was being quiet and following the rules, which was all Soap could ask for at this point.

"You're an American, huh?" Roach asked, leaning forward.

"Yeah. I've got a nice little apartment in D.C." Angela answered, tilting her head slightly.

"Capital girl, then?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that." Angela smiled faintly, nodding.

The jeep hit a bump, the whole vehicle jolting fiercely. Angela jumped and gripped her teeth tightly.

"A bit tense there, aren't we?" Soap asked, pushing his foot on the accelerator. They weren't getting out of town fast enough, and it was only a matter of time before they had unpleasant company.

"Well, the last time I drove blindfolded, it was on a golf cart and part of a very drunk bet."

Soap glanced over at Angela, chuckling, then over at Roach, who was stifling a laugh. Looking in the cracked rearview mirror, Soap tried to see through the plume of dust the jeep was leaving in its wake. They were outside of the town now, though still within firing range if there was anybody in the outlying buildings.

"Well, congratulations, girlie," Soap said over the dull roar of the jeep's engine. "Looks like you managed to piss off every gang member into chasing you through town."

"Doubt it," Angela replied. "But there weren't that many to begin with."

"And if they'd already gotten the weapons shipment out of the town, then there'd be no need for guards," Roach added.

"Sounds about right," Soap answered, clenching the steering wheel tightly.

()

Whether it was divine intervention or sheer luck, Soap wasn't sure, but they made it out of the village with only a few slightly puzzled glances from a couple of confused cows on the outskirts of the village. Puzzled glances were better than bullets any day.

Angela had stayed quiet for the drive, speaking only when spoken to. Soap would have truly preferred to believe her when she said she was American and not a threat, but that was a risk that Soap wasn't quite willing to take, nor was he willing to put Roach at that risk, either. Besides, if anything, she could be considered potentially deadly when armed with the proper laptop.

Their small base of operations was hidden fairly well in the nearby jungle foliage, and while it seemed to provide decent enough camouflage, it did nothing for the heat. There were a couple of soldiers cautiously milling around the camp, and they watched the jeep closely until they verified it was Soap driving. One of them approached the jeep as it slowed to a stop, glanced over at Angela, then gave Soap an inquisitive look.

"Pick up a souvenir while you were out there, eh?"

"Maybe," Soap replied, climbing out of the jeep. "But first we've gotta' make sure this little souvenir is genuine."

()

To say that Captain Sinclair was infuriated could have easily been the understatement of the month. He was pacing back and forth, his boots squeaking against the grungy tile floor. First Lieutenant Alan "Church" Lee watched in silence. He was standing near the table that was laden with their communications equipment, as he had been for the past hour and a half. And while he didn't expect any sort of response from the communications equipment after that much time, Church preferred to stay the hell out of Sinclair's way.

The room itself was fairly small, but the walls were well enforced, and was probably one of the most secure rooms in the dilapidated building. At one time the structure was some sort of general store, at least, that was Church's best guess, judging by the old cans of food and bits of magazines strewn around the floor. Now, though, it was serving as a temporary base of operations, its primary function long since lost since most of the locals became armed with fully automatic weapons.

Sinclair suddenly turned and looked at Church with a pointed glare, his dark brown eyes narrowed.

"Try reaching her again," he ordered gruffly.

Sighing inwardly and nodding, Church picked up the radio, clearing his throat before speaking.

"Redbird Four this is Redbird Two, do you copy?" There was a long stretch of static. Church glanced up at Sinclair, who nodded. "Redbird Four this is Redbird Two, do you copy?"

Again, only static answered.

"Dammit," Sinclair grumbled, his Southern drawl drawing the curse out. "It's been too long. We know we've got at least one soldier dead, last thing we need is to add a dead CIA agent. Get yer' gear and get ready to move out."

"You got it, Captain," Church answered, tossing the radio to the table. He walked briskly out of the room.

Sergeant Oscar Alvarez was standing in the hallway just outside the door, and he looked up at Church expectantly.

"No go," Church replied with a shake of his head. "We're going to go get our little songbird back."

"Sounds like a plan," Alvarez responded with a grim smile. "Riley and Epps are downstairs, and they should be good to go."

Back in the communications room, Sinclair was having one last staring contest with the communications equipment, as if he could, by sheer will alone, force some sort of response. He picked up the radio, gripping it tightly enough he could hear the plastic parts creaking.

"Redbird Four this is Redbird One, do you copy?"

There was a short burst of static, and then a voice crackled over in response.

"Redbird One this is Hotel Six, I copy."

The surprise at actually receiving a response made Sinclair pause for a few brief seconds. While the voice definitely wasn't Angela's, it was speaking fairly clear English, save for the thick Scottish accent.

"Hotel Six, please identify," Sinclair said somewhat loudly. He was vaguely aware that both Church and Alvarez were now watching him from the doorway. "How did you get this frequency?"

"Redbird One, I'm with her Majesty's SAS forces, and I believe we have something, or rather, someone, of yours. Your little songbird packs quite a punch."

Saying a silent prayer of thanks, Sinclair took a deep breath, giving a quick glance to Church and Alvarez.

"Copy that, Hotel Six, and we would be more than happy to get our little songbird back."

"Aye, you got it, Redbird One."

As Sinclair continued talking to Hotel Six, Alvarez looked at Church.

"That was too close," he muttered. "Besides, what to say it isn't some damn ambush?"

"And what if it isn't?" Church replied, his eternal optimism shining through. "And to boot, how many Scotsmen did you see running around this place?"

"Yeah, yeah..."

"Stow it, sports," Sinclair said loudly, walking out of the communications room. "So long as what our little Hotel Six buddy there was sayin' is true, they've got our little Angela. And 'they' being SAS, if you didn't hear. We've got about a sixty-five minute window to pick her up and then get the hell outta' here."

"Well, I don't know about you, boss, but I'm more than ready to get out of this hellhole. This place is hotter than a firecracker in Juarez," Church stated, shrugging slightly under the weight of his gear.

"Then let's gear up and move out."


	3. Chapter 3

Wincing slightly at the sting of the antiseptic being dabbed at the bite wound on his arm, Soap glanced over at Angela, who was sitting in the passenger's seat of the Jeep. The blindfold and zip tie around her wrists had since been removed, and an empty Styrofoam cup was on the hood of the Jeep. Angela had drank at least three full cups of water and a cup of coffee. The information she had supplied had checked out, and, if anything, she seemed tired from the whole ordeal.

"She really bit you something fierce," the medic chuckled faintly, wrapping a bandage around Soap's arm.

"Yeah, bloody girl probably moonlights as a piranha," Soap grumbled, taking a long drag at the cigar he held tightly between his teeth.

"Can't say I really blame her, though," the medic responded, tying off the bandage and then putting the material back in the first aid box. "You're damn lucky she didn't break your nose, though, mate."

Lightly running his fingers over the bandage that went across the bridge of his nose, Soap sighed heavily and walked over to the Jeep. Angela was staring intensely at the ground, but at the sound of Soap's footsteps, she looked up. Whether it was the shade from the foliage or that he hadn't noticed before in all of the racket, Soap realized that Angela's eyes were a much deeper shade of blue than he'd initially realized. Dark enough to almost be sapphire in color.

The medics had cleaned her up a bit, too, the blood smears and dirt now gone from her skin. Even beneath the sunburns and scratches, her skin was quite pale, mimicked by her borderline platinum blonde hair, which was now combed back as best as Angela had managed.

"Sorry for biting you," Angela said quickly, ducking her head. "And for stomping on your toes. And for, you know, hitting you with the laptop."

"That how you always greet somebody?" Soap asked with a grin.

Angela started to snap back a reply, but when she looked up and saw Soap smiling, she managed a smile of her own and shook her head.

"No, I'm usually a bit friendlier. Especially if they're the pizza delivery guy."

Soap forced a slight chuckle, then noticed the small sliver of white that was peeking out from underneath the left side of Angela's shirt collar. It was a small part of a thick bandage that was tightly wrapped around her shoulder.

"Looks like you did get a bit beat up back there, girlie," Soap said, taking another drag at the cigar and motioning to Angela's left shoulder.

"Yeah, one of those bastards got a lucky shot, I guess. It's not bad, though." Angela tugged her sweat and dirt stained white shirt down, revealing a large square bandage that already had a small hint of crimson red seeping through. "Just a pretty bad graze. I'm sure you've had worse."

"That I have," Soap answered. "But I've got to give you credit, you're the first person to ever successfully attack me with a laptop."

"Sorry," Angela said, still smiling weakly.

"Bah, I figure we're even," Soap replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He reached out and very lightly touched the bruising along Angela's neck. "Looks like I managed to rough you up a bit, anyways."

"You pulled your punches." Angela gave Soap a knowing look.

"Well, I don't exactly enjoy beating up women, even if they do throw the first punch." Soap winked at Angela quickly. "But don't worry, girlie, we got your men coming over to pick you up. You'll be out of this jungle before you know it."

"Oh man...Sinclair is going to kill me," Angela moaned, putting her head in her hands.

"Why? You made it out all right, and in one piece, along with the information you gathered."

"Yeah, but I've got a record of being able to get in, get stuff done, and get out, without a scratch or without anybody the wiser. That's why I was sent here, because I can get stuff done and nobody notices me."

Soap crouched down so he was looking up at Angela, her blue eyes peeking out from between her fingers. His pale blue eyes locked with hers, and he lightly pried her hands away from her face. Angela studied his face closely, her eyes flicking back and forth slightly.

"If you've done good enough that they sent you out here, then-"

"Hey, Soap! You ready to go, mate?"

Soap stood up, looking over his shoulder to Roach, who was carrying the laptop that Angela had had with her. Soap took the laptop and then looked down at Angela, who had a slightly sick look on her face. Roach noticed the look and glanced over at Soap.

"She going to be all right?"

"Aye," Soap replied, tossing away the butt of the cigar. "Just need to get her out of this jungle."

"Well, we're meeting up with her fellow soldiers shortly, so they should be able to get her out of here." Roach looked over at Angela. "Probably even get her all the way back to D.C."

The two SAS soldiers looked at Angela, trying to see if the mention of home would rouse her from her depressed state, but she stayed hunched over, her face now covered by her hands.

()

Hidden by the shadows of the looming trees, Sinclair and Alvarez watched as a Jeep drove closer, three figures bobbing slightly as the vehicle road over the rough terrain. Back up a hill to the left, covered in camouflage, Riley was perched with a M40A3, ready to keep things from getting messy. Sinclair hoped that it didn't come to that, but he knew better, after this many years, to put all of his trust in one person.

The Jeep crept to a stop, the first SAS soldier getting out. A pair of sunglasses guarded his eyes from the burning sunlight, and an M16 rifle was held securely in his arms. Sinclair immediately recognized Angela in the passenger seat, and his gaze then moved to the driver of the Jeep. The other SAS soldier was tall with a cropped mohawk and a long scar across his left eye. Alvarez cleared his throat softly, his finger lightly touching the trigger of his M4A1rifle. Sinclair shook his head, walking towards the Jeep slowly.

"Redbird One, aye?" the scarred SAS soldier asked.

"In the flesh, sport," Sinclair replied. "Have to thank you for picking up our little songbird, there."

"Songbird, eh?" Soap flipped the laptop over, then handed it to Sinclair, who took the laptop with a nod.

"Yeah, but when she's on your side of the fight, we call her our angel," Alvarez interjected.

Soap looked over at Alvarez, then back to Sinclair. Angela had already climbed out of the Jeep and was walking towards them. Soap gave a quick nod to Angela, who smiled weakly.

"Well, mate, hopefully next time we'll meet on better terms."

Sinclair smiled and nodded his head.

"Have to agree with you there, friend." Sinclair looked over at Angela, putting an arm around her and giving her a hug. "C'mon, darlin'. We've got business to discuss and probably wouldn't hurt to get you cleaned up."

Soap turned and walked back to the Jeep, Roach following but never taking his eyes off of Sinclair or Alvarez. They watched as Sinclair, Alvarez, and Angela drove off in their own, beat up Jeep.

"Well, that went better than I thought," Roach said quietly. "At least that Angela was telling the truth and we got her back with her mates, eh?"

"Aye," Soap replied with a nod. "Hopefully she gets to stay home now. She doesn't seem the type that should be running around with our types anyways."


	4. Chapter 4

()

Three months later, and the bullet graze had become nothing more than a pale sliver of a scar. Angela stared at herself in the full-length mirror. That scar was probably one of the least visible ones out of the myriad of scars that covered her body. A doctor, at one point, had had the rather brutal tact to describe Angela as a "walking jigsaw puzzle," and that after what she had been through, she was lucky to have all the pieces still intact.

The worst were across her back, the thick, raised scars that crisscrossed down her back. Coming in a close second were the ones on her wrists. While they had since faded and healed better than had been initially projected, they still were an odd sight to see. The skin was pockmarked and rippled from where the skin had been rubbed, and bitten, off years ago. Finally, as the last part of her scar collection, there were three star-shaped scars on the right side of her stomach, the lasting reminders of three 9mm bullets that had punched their way through her. Of course, there were some more scars, but they were smaller, some lighter, and all from injuries that weren't necessarily noteworthy.

Angela's face had, by some grace of God, been spared the majority of the damage that her body had suffered. If anything, the worst scars she had to show on her face were the thick scar that ran across the end of her right eyebrow and the thin scars that ran along the left side of her jaw line. They were courtesy of razor wire that Angela had made the mistake of trying to fight her way out of. The scars got worse as it they worked down her neck, but all in all, that seemed to be the worst that Angela's face had suffered.

Sighing, Angela walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where the microwave was incessantly beeping at her, telling her that the egg rolls she was warming up had been awaiting her attention for at least three minutes. Popping open the microwave door, she reached into the microwave and grabbed one of the egg rolls. The bite of scalding heat on her fingers immediately made her regret her decision, and with a short curse, Angela dropped the egg roll and sucked on her burned fingers. Angrily flipping off the egg roll, Angela walked over to the sink and peeked out the window.

Her apartment was on the second floor, and the window provided a decent view outside, but most of it was taken up by the other apartment complex across the street. Down on the sidewalk, it looked like a couple was arguing over something, but that was about the height of the excitement for now.

Walking back over to the microwave and carefully pulling the plate that the egg rolls were on and quickly setting it down on the small, folding table in the middle of the dining area, Angela looked over at her To-Do list. The list actually consisted of a bunch of Sticky Notes that had since been stuck to each other. By this point, it looked like some sort of yellow snake working its way up the refrigerator front.

The tasks that were written in ink were the ones that Angela had to do, but for the tasks that she was still not sure whether or not they had to be done, Angela had just penciled those onto the Sticky Note.

A sharp knock at the door made Angela jump, her eyes narrowing quickly. She wasn't expecting visitors, nor had she ordered any food for delivery, as the egg rolls she had nuked in the microwave could attest to.

Peeking through the peep hole on the door, Angela immediately recognized the grinning face. She opened the door and was immediately greeted by Sergeant James Riley.

"Angie!" he cried, picking her up in a hug.

Grunting and laughing slightly, Angela wiggled out of Riley's embrace and regarded him with a suspicious grin.

"All right...what's up? The only time I get this sort of greeting is when you want something, have a new mission, or need to hide from whatever girl it is you've pissed off."

Riley feigned a hurt look and walked into Angela's apartment, Angela shutting the door behind him. Riley's dark brown hair had been cropped short, which was more of a hint to either a new mission or a new, angry girlfriend. Riley scrunched up his nose and looked over at Angela.

"Either you're cooking or somebody got sick in the AC vent."

"Hardy har," Angela grumbled, walking back to the kitchen. "If you must know, it's day old egg rolls. They're still quite tasty."

Riley stared at Angela as though she had just proclaimed a love for eating old dog food, then shook his head.

"Yeah, whatever. When you die of food poisoning, nobody is going to be surprised. You know that, right?"

"Are you kidding me? After all the shit I've been through, if I die to food poisoning, my spirit is going to haunt the hell out of whatever place it is that has the food that kills me." Angela picked up one of the egg rolls and began eating it, then looked at Riley. "Well, now that we've established that you're not here because of my fine culinary skills, what are you here for?"

Riley gave her a half-hearted grin.

"You get to come with Steel squad again."

"Woohoo." Angela spun her index finger around in small circles slowly.

"Aww, c'mon, I'm sure you can muster a bit more enthusiasm than _that_," Riley groaned.

"After the last time? I was the laughing stock of the office! Not to mention I got sunburned so badly that trying to do anything more than staring blankly at the computer screen hurt." Angela absently rubbed at her face. It had taken weeks for the sunburn to fade away completely.

"Well, you don't have to worry about sunburns where we're going, at least, for the most part. And we'll be going someplace that I'm pretty sure you won't even have to worry about your last mission haunting you."

"And where, pray tell, would that be?"

"We get to go to merry old England!"

Angela paused in mid-bite of an egg roll and looked over at Riley.

"…England?"

"Yeah, you know…the island over the ocean. Our allies. Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Do you know who we're working with?" Angela set the egg roll down, her appetite fading.

"I don't know," Riley replied, shrugging and absently putting his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket. "Probably Special Air Services, but you know Sinclair, he's usually kind of quiet about this sort of stuff until everything's been arranged."

"They brought back the same Delta squad from the South America mission?"

"Eh, most of us. They've got Sinclair leading us, which is fine by me, there's me, obviously, pretty sure they pulled in Alvarez, too, I think they got some guy named Wilson. I've run with him a couple of times, not a bad guy, strong as an ox, though. Oh, and hey, they've got our old buddy Church coming with us, too." Riley gave Angela an assuring grin.

Angela looked down at the plate of egg rolls, then back up at Riley.

"You were there at South America, did you miss the whole conversation Sinclair had with me about attacking allies?"

"Particularly SAS?" Riley asked, his grin getting wider. "Oh yeah, I heard. We all did. But hey, look at it this way, we may not even be working with the same guys, and if we do, this can be when you give them a nice, polite little apology for bashing one of their Captains in the face."

Angela winced and ducked her head.

"Thanks, Riley, I needed that reminder."

"I do it because I love you." Riley's tone was a mixture of joking and condescension, neither of which really made Angela feel any better.

"You didn't see the poor guy's face. I hit him square in the face and came really close to breaking his nose."

"Yeah, but I saw the bruises he left on you. I think you two are even."

"…I bit him. Hard."

Riley stopped, obviously trying to find a decent retort, and actually opened his mouth a couple times, but always fell silent and closed his mouth. He rubbed his chin, which had a light 5 'o clock shadow.

"Yeah, about that. I know the shots you have to get after getting bit," Riley finally said. "You might want to see about taking a six-pack of beer as a peace offering. …or…two. Maybe three."

Sighing, Angela picked up the egg roll and finished eating it.

"Well, how about this," Riley proposed. "We're just going to hope good and well that you don't meet the same guy, eh?"

"Could I really be so lucky?" Angela moaned, finishing off the last egg roll.

"You've had some decent luck in the past," Riley said quietly, his grin fading quickly.

Obnoxious as he may be at points, Angela hated to see Riley's grin disappear that rapidly. She smiled and shrugged.

"Yeah, I have. Who knows? Maybe there's a bar or something nearby that I can get him a six pack. Or two, or three."


	5. Chapter 5

()

The debriefing room was unusually cold, and all five soldiers of the Delta squad were wearing jackets, along with Angela, who was in a dark gray hoodie. Riley, Church, and Angela all had cups of steaming coffee gripped in their hands, while Alvarez was grumbling to himself about the "damnable" air conditioning, while Wilson was sitting quietly in his chair, looking at the dry erase board blankly.

Angela had seen Arnold Wilson's file. He was from the Army Rangers, and came with great recommendations from his superiors. Angela could only hope that he lived up to those recommendations.

Captain Sinclair walked into the room, stopped, and looked up at the air conditioning vents with a slightly disgusted and annoyed glare. Shaking his head, Sinclair pulled out the small pile of manila folders that were tucked under his right arm. He handed them to Alvarez, who handed them around quietly.

"So," Sinclair said, lightly clapping his hands and then rubbing them together, "how is everybody this fine morning?"

"Boss, it's four o' clock in the morning," Church said. "We are not yet to the point of a 'fine' morning. I think, last I checked, we are at the point of 'what the hell are we doing awake' morning. 'Fine' morning is somewhere around seven or eight."

Everybody else in the room chuckled lightly, Alvarez and Riley nodding their heads in agreement. Sinclair laughed and nodded, then picked up the one manila envelope that he had kept for himself. He began leafing through the papers inside, then glanced around the room quickly to make sure everybody had their own envelope and was paying attention.

"All right, well, we'll go ahead and get this 'what the hell are we doing awake' morning started. Long story short, we're going to give our allies a little bit of help dealing with some rogue Russians."

Angela looked at the first paper-clipped group of papers. Mug photo shots of three men and one woman glared back at her. Two of the men had dark hair, maybe black, while the other had lighter colored hair. The woman's hair was dark blonde, and her face was sharp and angular.

"Not only do they have quite a few gun-toting buddies to back them up, but we know that at least one of them, that light haired sport on the first page, has launch codes for enough missiles to level Louisiana." Sinclair looked at Angela. "You, darlin', are going to have to break out your snowshoes. You get to do some remote work."

"Remote work? I'm going out in the field along with you guys?" Angela asked, looking up.

"Yes, ma'am," Sinclair replied, nodding. He looked at Angela with his brown eyes, then winked quickly. "Don't worry, we won't let the big, bad men get you."

"Wait," Riley piped up, looking up from the papers, "Are we protecting Angela? Or are we protecting the bad guys from Angela?"

Angela rolled her eyes and shot Riley a disapproving glare, but Church and Alvarez were already laughing quietly. Sinclair shrugged and chuckled.

"I think we're supposed to protect Angela, but I think we can still feel sympathy for the poor bastard she gets a hold of." Sinclair flipped back the first page, then cleared his throat. "They've got a couple of bases we know of; one of them is in Kazakhstan. Another base is near Lake Balkhash, which is where we're pretty sure one of our targets is currently located."

Church lifted a hand up slowly, catching Sinclair's attention.

"We're working with SAS, right?" Church asked. "No offense, but why do they need our help? Last I checked, they were doing pretty well with handling the Russians. You know…more or less."

"We've got our own interests in this, too. These guys got their hands on some information and an experimental weapon that we need to get back. That and the fact that SAS asked for our help, so that's what we're going to do." Sinclair set aside the first paper-clipped group of papers and moved on to the next one. "We're working with Task Force 141. We've, uh, met."

She didn't look up, but Angela could feel the room staring at her from the corner of their eyes. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, looking at the group photo of the SAS task force. She almost immediately recognized the two soldiers she had ran into in South America. Sighing, Angela chewed on her bottom lip lightly, trying to keep herself from blushing.

"If anything, it keeps the introductions shorter," Sinclair added quickly, moving the conversation along.

The rest of the meeting droned on, and it was fairly routine from the looks of it. While Angela always wondered what was so important or so archaic that it required her to be on the field, she just hoped there wouldn't be a repeat of the last time she was out in the field.

While SAS wanted to either apprehend or make sure that three of the Russians didn't see their next birthday, it seemed that one of the men, Anton Tarasov, had not only managed to set off some red flags while under surveillance, but had since managed to slip out from under the surveillance and now had his hands on a weapon and information that the U.S. government wanted back.

As the meeting wound down, Angela noticed Wilson mutter something to Church, who shot Wilson a look that Angela couldn't quite decipher. Church caught Angela's gaze, then shook his head quickly. Once dismissed, Angela quickly exited the room, Riley following her closely, talking about a new coffee shop that had opened up recently.

Watching the two walk down the hall, their conversation fading, Church turned back to Wilson, who was standing in the hallway quietly. Church was an even six feet tall, but Wilson stood a good three inches taller than Church, and probably could have punted Church down the hallway like an old football. Now, though, he seemed incredibly quiet and somewhat concerned.

"So, what did you want to ask about Angela?" Church finally asked, making sure the hallway was relatively deserted. Out of habit, he brushed a hand across his dark blonde hair and quickly put on a baseball hat, watching Wilson with his green blue eyes.

"I saw her file," Wilson started slowly. "She's gone through numerous psych evals and that whole thing with the church..."

Church felt his lower jaw clench and he fought to keep from making a fist. Wilson was only expressing concern, as most people would if they saw Angela's rather long personnel file, but Church had also been saved by the very traits that Wilson was bringing into question.

"Well, you know as well as I do that all of those psych evals have come back with a positive review," Church answered. "As for Angela's past...well, we've all got skeletons in our closets, it's just Angela's have been dragged out for the whole world to see."

"But you're not worried about her...cracking?"

Church laughed and began walking down the hall, Wilson following him.

"Kid, if Angela was going to crack, she either would have done so a long time ago, or it's going to take a hell of a lot more than some angry Russians and bad weather. Besides, which would you rather have out in the field with you? Somebody who has done nothing but push pencils all their life? Or somebody who has an idea of the type of Hell we get to go through and knows, roughly, what to expect?"

"In all honesty, sir, I'd like somebody that wasn't deemed a suicide risk."

"That was four evaluations ago," Church replied steely. "And if you can show me somebody that's been through half of what she has and hasn't had a suicidal thought, well, then I'll say that's the day pigs fly and cows sing."

Wilson was quiet, but Church could tell that the man wasn't convinced. In all honesty, Church doubted there was anything he could do to convince Wilson otherwise of Angela's demeanor. All Church could do was hope that it didn't affect Wilson or Angela when all hell had broken loose.

"Has her past ever affected a mission adversely?" Wilson asked solemnly.

"Never."


	6. Chapter 6

()

Roach had always known that Ghost had a penchant for gleaning as much information as possible about an upcoming mission, but after watching a cup of scalding hot coffee go stone cold without Ghost so much as taking a sip at it, Roach wasn't sure whether to be in awe or to ask Ghost if he was still conscious.

"They sending anybody good?" Roach finally asked.

From across the table, Ghost gave Roach a quick glance and then turned his attention back to the folders of personnel files he had been reading.

"Looks like it, mate," he answered. "This Sinclair fellow has been through all sorts of hell, and it seems like this Church, as he's called, is his right hand man. But I heard you've already met Sinclair."

"Yeah. It was...interesting," Roach replied. "Is it true they're bringing that same woman?"

"It's true." Ghost tossed one of the folders to Roach, a few of the papers sliding out.

Roach picked up the folder and looked at the photo. He immediately recognized the blonde hair and dark eyes, but in the photo, she was smiling. Roach didn't recall her ever smiling.

"You hear that, Captain?" Roach asked with a short laugh. "The U.S. is sending your favorite CIA agent along with the Delta Team."

"Great," Soap grumbled. He had been fighting with the coffee maker for a few minutes now, but he seemed to have won and sat down at the table with a cup of coffee that was blacker than asphalt. "Hell, arm that crazy woman with a laptop and let her loose. We'll win the bloody fight without having to shoot a bullet."

Roach frowned, reading Angela's full name.

"Angelinka Jasinski?" he asked, looking up at Ghost.

"Yeah. She's Polish, or at least, of Polish descent. I think her mother and father immigrated over and she's the first generation of her family to be born in the States." Ghost shrugged slightly.

"She's got one hell of a resume, though," Roach mumbled. "Looks like they pulled her in for almost every job that they thought couldn't be done."

"That little stick figure of a woman?" Soap asked, raising an eyebrow. He motioned to Roach for the folder, and Roach slid the folder across the table. Picking it up, Soap leafed through the papers. "Bloody hell, you weren't kidding."

"No wonder she made such an interesting first impression," Roach answered.

"What's with all the psych evaluations?" Soap muttered.

"Seems like she hit a rough patch a couple years ago. It was a mission in South Africa. The details are a bit sketchy, but when she got back to the States, she was put on suicide watch for a while." Ghost cleared his throat. "But her last couple of psych evals came back with her in as best of mental health as possible, so here's hoping she's not completely mental."

Pausing for a few minutes, Soap studied the profile picture of Angela. Her hair was longer at the time, falling to her shoulders, and she was smiling. It was odd to see her in this picture, when the only Angela he remembered had been bruised and covered in dirt.

"Looks like this Church fellow has been with her on quite a few missions," Roach stated, looking through another personnel file. "He's got extensive medical experience, though. Hey, if we get shot, we know who to go to."

"How about just not getting shot?" Ghost interjected, smiling faintly.

"You mentioned Captain Sinclair. From what I saw in his file, he checked out pretty well," Soap looked over to Ghost, who nodded.

"That he does, mate. He's fluent in Russian, French, Spanish, and English, of course. Has great recommendations from his superiors, and excels in leading covert ops." Ghost handed Sinclair's personnel folder to Soap, who began looking through it. "And from what you mentioned, seemed like a friendly enough fellow."

"He was," Soap replied. From what he remembered, Captain Sinclair had seemed like a good enough soldier, but that memory was formed from a very brief meeting.

"So, Soap," Ghost set down the folders, "did that CIA agent really bite you?"

"More like try to gnaw my bloody arm off," Soap grumbled. "I had to get four different shots because of that lunatic."

Roach stifled a laugh, and Ghost just chuckled and shook his head.

"Well, mate, I've got to hand it to her, it takes a lot of nerve to go toe to toe with you," Ghost stated. "Or, in that case, teeth to arm."

"And Soap was kind enough to pull his punches," Roach said with a grin.

"Awww, Soap, that was mighty nice of you," Ghost chuckled.

Soap rolled his eyes and took a sip of the hot coffee.

"I was pretty sure that the South American favela gang hadn't started hiring blonde haired, blue eyed women wearing military fatigues with an American flag on them," Soap replied, fighting a smile. "Or at least, they weren't stupid enough to send them out where they could get captured."

Pausing, Roach frowned slightly, looking at a picture that had been tucked away within Church's personnel file.

"Something wrong there, mate?" Ghost asked, noticing Roach's expression.

"Look at this, tell me if you notice something wrong." Roach held up a group photo of various members of Delta Team Steel, including Sinclair, Church, and Alvarez.

Both Ghost and Soap leaned forward, looking at the photo. Ghost shrugged slightly, but Soap took the photo out of Roach's hand. Standing behind Sinclair and Alvarez, almost completely hidden, was Angela. But something was wrong. Her expression was utterly dead pan, and either the camera had done something terrible with the shadows or…

"Is it just me or does Angela look pretty damn near dead in that photo?" Roach asked cautiously.

Soap handed the photo to Ghost, who peered at it, frowned, then looked closer at the photo. He glanced over at Soap, then cleared his throat lightly.

"Looks like it. Maybe this is right after that South Africa mission, eh?"

()

Sinclair hated paperwork. It was one of the few things that came with promotions that he hated. Paperwork was tedious, time consuming, and, if not filled out properly, could screw things up for months. While he understood it was a necessary evil, he also wondered why he couldn't have the sincere pleasure of using copies of some of the unclassified documents as target practice.

There was also the nagging thought of the conversation he'd had with Church earlier. Wilson had stopped Church after the morning meeting, voicing concerns that Angela was some sort of psychotic break waiting to happen. While Sinclair was pretty sure he knew the reason for Wilson's concern, he wasn't too appreciative of the fact that Wilson hadn't come to him directly. In any case, Church had fielded the question fairly well, and, as far as Sinclair knew, Wilson was more at ease about Angela being on the team. Or at least, so he hoped.

Reading over the inventory list, Sinclair felt his vision blurring, and he had to put the paper down before he got dizzy. It wasn't anything that he didn't know already.

Sinclair leaned back in his chair, staring up at the tiled ceiling. His crew cut brown hair was spiked back slightly, nothing that caused a problem with regulations. As he mulled over the coming mission, Sinclair's brown eyes studied the tiles of the ceiling. The chair creaked suddenly, bringing Sinclair back to reality. He sat back up and picked the inventory list up once again. It was as boring as it had been the first time he read it.

Slogging through the paperwork, Sinclair glanced up at the clock on the wall. He had a little less than an hour to get everything signed off on. As if realizing that he couldn't afford interruptions, Sinclair's cell phone chirped at him loudly. The sound was akin to that of a bird getting throttled, but it was the only sound that Sinclair would hear without fail.

Pulling the cell phone out of his pocket, Sinclair glanced at the Caller ID. It was Laura, his fiancée. Smiling and shaking his head slightly, Sinclair slid the cell phone open and held it between his ear and his shoulder.

"Hey, baby," he said quickly, picking up yet another form in the endless pile of forms.

"Hey," Laura's voice was incredibly chipper. "What're you doin'?"

"Paperwork, as per usual."

"I figured as much." There was a short pause, then Laura continued. "You're going to be stationed in the U.K., right?"

"That's right." Sinclair frowned slightly. "Why?"

"Well, I was thinkin' that I've never seen the U.K. before, 'cept in photos that anybody can Google."

"You want me to get you photos?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, if you can. You got me those photos of Africa when you went down there, and those were nice, so I'd like more. Oh! And a keychain."

"A keychain?"

"Yeah, or a shot glass. You know, one of those little souvenir things."

Sinclair chuckled and rolled his eyes slightly.

"All right, all right, I'll see what I can do. Was there anythin' else you wanted?"

"Yeah. Come home safe."

Pausing slightly, Sinclair smiled a bit more sincerely and he nodded.

"I can do that, too."

"You'd better." Laura paused once again, as though wrestling with something else to say. "Well, that was it. I just wanted to make sure you got me those photos. Have fun with your paperwork!"

"Yeah, sure, loads of fun," Sinclair laughed.

Laura hung up and Sinclair looked at his phone for a few minutes. He maneuvered the phone's display to a little note application, where he quickly added, "Take photos of U.K." to the list.

After forcing himself to work through the rest of the papers, Sinclair shuffled the paperwork in a neat pile. He left the office, locking the door behind him, and started walking down the hallway. He flipped his cell phone open, dialing Angela's phone number, and carried the paperwork in one hand while holding his cell phone in the other.

The phone rang at least four times, which was about the norm for Angela, before she finally picked up.

"Sinclair?"

"Hey, Angie," Sinclair said quickly, entering another office and handing the paperwork off to a rather haggard looking secretary. "You ready to go?"

"Sort of…"

"Which means 'No, Mister Sinclair, I haven't packed a thing yet,'" Sinclair said with a smile.

"Maybe," Angela answered after a pause.

"Darlin', this isn't like a quick trip across the States, we're goin' over to the U.K. for at least a few months." Sinclair left the paperwork with the secretary, and continued walking down the hallway. "We leave in less than twenty-four hours. You might be able to buy a toothbrush if you forget it, not sure about anythin' else, though."

"All right, all right. Hey, can I bring alcohol on this trip?"

Sinclair paused in mid-step, blinked a couple times, then kept walking, albeit a bit slower.

"Excuse me?"

"Alcohol. Riley said I should."

"Did he now?"

"Yeah, he said it'd be a good apology gift for bashing Captain MacTavish in the face with the laptop."

"Darlin'," Sinclair sighed. "No, you cannot bring alcohol on this trip. And remind me to clobber Riley for suggestin' such a crazy idea."

"It was worth a shot, sir," Angela said quietly.

"You worry too much, Angie," Sinclair chuckled. "I doubt that a laptop is the worst that Captain MacTavish has been attacked with. Just relax."

"Right," Angela replied slowly. "Hmmm…"

"What?"

"Should I go with a dark blue shirt or a black shirt for introductions…?" Angela inquired with a squeak in her voice. "Or maybe the flower print?"

"Just get yer' ass in the plane on time," Sinclair laughed, ending the call.


	7. Chapter 7

()

The base was relatively quiet, with low-hanging clouds and a slow drizzle pouring down from the gray sky. Soap stood outside, an eave of the building shielding him from the rain. Far in the distance, he could see the lights of the airplane drawing closer. He was feeling oddly anxious. It wasn't the same feeling of nervousness that he had before missions; that type of anxiety he could handle and deal with. This was something else. Something about this felt…different. He wasn't sure whether it was good or bad, but it was different.

A low roll of thunder snapped him out of his daydream. The plane was closer now, and it circled around the base before hitting the landing strip with a short shriek as the tires scraped against the pavement. Soap began walking towards the landing strip, unfazed by the soft patter of rain against his uniform.

As the plane's door opened and the U.S. soldiers began filing out, Soap jogged the rest of the distance, meeting Sinclair part ways.

"Captain MacTavish?" Sinclair asked, smiling faintly.

"Aye, and you must be Captain Sinclair."

"One and the same." Sinclair replied with a quick salute. He glanced over his shoulder. Alvarez was getting off the plane slowly, looking at little queasy. "You all right, Alvarez?"

"Yes, sir," Alvarez answered slowly. "Just reminding my lunch not to come back for a second opinion."

Soap recognized the next man as Alan "Church" Matthew Lee. The next was James Lewis Riley, then Arnold Moore Wilson, and finally Angelinka Lucille Jasinski. She looked far better than she had when Soap had first met her. While the Delta Team soldiers were dressed in fatigues and fit right in on the military base. Angela, however, was dressed in a dark blue pants suit, a white, collared shirt underneath her navy jacket.

As introductions were exchanged, the rain began to pour down, and Soap motioned to the main office building.

"Weather's only going to get worse," he warned. He led the Delta Team inside the building, the rainfall leaving a distinct echo throughout the building. Ghost, Roach, and Scarecrow were seated at a table, but all three looked up at the sound of the door opening.

"Over there is our one and only _good_ coffee maker," Soap said, pointing over to a rather large coffee maker on a table with three stacks of coffee cups beside it, "there's our dining area," Ghost, Roach, and Scarecrow had been seated at one of the four tables there, but they were now walking over to greet their allies, "and over there is our information and communications area." Soap motioned to the west wall, which was practically alive with blinking dots and computer screens. He then turned to the three Task Force 141 soldiers.

As the men exchanged introductions, Angela studied the west wall, looking over the computers. They all looked in fairly good condition, although some of the buttons appeared to be worn, and a fine layer of dust covered the monitors. Nothing she couldn't handle. Now if it turned out that one of the computers had been doused in coffee, she might have to rethink that statement. Even so, it couldn't be as bad as-

"You still with us, Miss Jasinski?"

Angela snapped back to attention. All eyes were on her and she suddenly felt very small. Glancing at Sinclair, she stood straight and regained her composure.

"Yes, sir?"

"You want to introduce yourself, or you want to remain anonymous?"

"Sorry, uhm, Angela Jasinski from the CIA," she said quickly to the members of Task Force 141. She recognized Soap and Roach instantly, and a knot in her stomach began to form. Unarmed, Roach appeared friendly, and reminded her somewhat of Riley. His blonde hair was cut back neatly, and he appeared to be paying attention to each word that was said. As for Soap, he cut an impressive figure, he was now clean shaven and his blue eyes were as sharp and bright as Angela remembered. Without dirt or grit on his face, the scar that ran down Soap's left eye was noticeable. It was then that she realized that Soap was looking directly at her…and that she had been staring at him.

Angela's breath caught in her throat, and she glanced away. The soldiers were now talking to each other, and she felt a little out of place, as she usually did. Sure, she'd accompanied Delta Team Steel on a few missions, but she had jumped between various teams and squads, going where she was needed. It felt borderline mercenary…

"Sir," she said quietly to Sinclair. "I'm going to go check out what sort of stuff I'll be working with."

"All right, darlin'," Sinclair looked at her a little closer. "You okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You look a little jumpy."

"Plane ride through a thunderstorm will do that." Angela smiled weakly, trying to convince both herself and Sinclair that the storm was the cause of her rattled composure.

Angela quickly turned and walked over to the west wall. In truth, she had no idea what had her nerves frayed. She prided herself on being borderline fearless, no matter the situation, and being able to keep her calm under extreme pressure. Now she felt like she'd ridden a roller coaster backwards and blindfolded.

Leaning forward on the table lightly, Angela looked around at the computers. They were a little more beat up than she had anticipated, but still nothing that looked too detrimental. Peeking behind one of the computer towers, Angela frowned at the massive tangle of cords. She cautiously tugged at the mess, immediately withdrawing her hand at the sound of some of the dried plastic covering cracking.

"Bit of a mess, isn't it?"

Stifling a squeak of surprise, Angela turned around quickly. Soap was standing behind her. He'd somehow managed to sneak up on her without her noticing, which did nothing to help calm Angela.

"Um, it's nothing…major. One of the computers I had to work with at one point had been stabbed a couple of times," Angela answered with a weak smile. Standing this close to Soap, she realized that he really had been pulling his punches.

"Really? Well, last I checked, none of these have been stabbed or shot." Soap frowned at a computer in particular. "Not for lack of desire, though."

Angela giggled quietly, then looked over at the computer that had a piece of white paper taped over the monitor.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Bloody thing's as contrary as they come. Malfunctions every chance it gets."

Angela stepped over to the computer, lifted up the piece of paper, and tapped on the computer. It didn't respond. Angela blew on the keyboard lightly, a cloud of dust rising. She stepped back, coughing. Her navy blue suit was already sporting a light coat of dust, and at this rate, Angela was pretty sure she would have to stand out in the rain to clean off her one, good formal suit.

"There's that, too," Soap said, stepping back slightly from the dust cloud.

Tapping on the keyboard again, Angela frowned as the computer beeped, but otherwise didn't respond. Angela tilted her head to one side, stray locks of blonde hair falling in her eyes.

"Hmm…there's no telling," she replied, standing up straight. A quick quiver raced down her spine, and she shrugged, trying to disguise the shiver. "I'll work on it, though. Maybe I can find out what's wrong."

"You cold?"

"Uhm…no, I don't think so. Thanks, though."

"All right, well, let me know if you need anything."

"Actually, sir?" Angela said quickly.

"Aye?"

"I know I already apologized, but…I wanted to say I'm sorry for attacking you."

"Don't worry about it," Soap chuckled. "If anything, it made for an interesting story afterwards."

Angela smiled, and it was that same, genuine smile that Soap had seen in her profile picture. And again that same, odd feeling of anxiety hit him. He nodded shortly and left her to work on the computers, but he couldn't shake the anxiousness that gnawed at him. What the hell was wrong with him?


	8. Chapter 8

()

The rain continued on through the evening, and Church wondered if the mice he had seen running around the building would be coming by in little canoes. Angela was still working on one of the computers; the occasional hissed curse word let Church know she was still fighting with the machine. Captain Sinclair was going over paperwork and maps with Captain MacTavish, and the rest of the Delta Team was either eating dinner or chatting with Task Force 141 soldiers.

Sipping at the ink black coffee that he had gotten from the one, good, working coffee maker, Church glanced over at Alvarez. The soldier was bundled up in an extra jacket, an insulated hat, gloves, and a scarf, along with his normal fatigues.

"Cold, Alvarez?" Church laughed.

"No, not cold, I'm fucking freezing, man!" Alvarez grumbled loudly, pulling the hat down over his ears. He looked over at Roach, who was eating a frozen dinner he had heated up in one of the two microwaves by the coffee maker. Roach, however, was in a white T-shirt and camouflage pants, and he seemed to be enamored with the magazine he was reading. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Roach looked up quickly, and frowned slightly at Alvarez.

"Excuse me?"

"How can you sit there without even a jacket?" Alvarez cried, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf. "What are you? Part Yeti?"

"I think my dad called my mum abominable a couple of times, but that was it, mate," Roach said with a grin. "I think we've got a spare heater or something like that around here, though."

"Nah," Church interjected. "This is revenge for every time we went to some godforsaken hell hole that was hotter than the Sun and Alvarez was running around like he was right at home."

"Not my fault you guys can't handle a bit of heat," Alvarez retorted.

"Heat my ass," Church protested. "That was on par with the breath of a dragon and your mother's cooking, Alv."

As Alvarez casually flipped Church off, there was the sound of a chair grating against the concrete. Angela came walking slowly from the computer wall, her dark blue pant suit covered in dirt and her blonde hair slightly ruffled. Church looked over at her and grinned.

"You okay?"

"I think so." Angela smiled weakly, then turned to where Soap and Sinclair were still talking. "Captain MacTavish?"

Soap looked up, stifling a smile at Angela's somewhat frazzled appearance.

"Aye?"

"The computer is now in working order, sir."

This time, Soap didn't bother hiding his smile. He shook his head slightly and looked over at Sinclair.

"We've been working on that bloody thing for months now."

"That's Angela. Don't think there's been more than five computers that she couldn't salvage."

Angela suddenly sneezed, then coughed and attempted to brush the dust off her suit. She looked up at Sinclair with a pleading look.

"Sir, may I please, please, _please_ get out of this ridiculous suit and into something that doesn't make me look like a JC Penney's mannequin?"

Sinclair grinned, then looked over at Church.

"What do you think, Church?"

Angela mustered up her best puppy-eye stare and focused it on Church. To his credit, Church tried to appear nonplussed, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah, sir, I think it should be fine. Besides, we don't want her having to deal with us and allergies, right?"

Sinclair nodded to Angela, and she darted out the building towards the barracks. They were fortunately close by, and while the rain was still pouring down, the lure of far more comfortable clothes had Angela sprinting through the puddles that were starting to form on the asphalt. She raced through the door to the barracks and navigated down to the semi-private room she had been provided with. Her bags were piled neatly at the foot of her bed, and she quickly yanked open the large duffel bag that contained most of her personal belongings.

After peeling off her rain soaked suit, Angela tugged on a pair of dark green fatigue pants and then a white T-shirt. Finally, she pulled on a gray jacket with a hood, zipping it up halfway. There was a small mirror hanging on the wall, and Angela glanced at her reflection quickly, making sure she appeared at least somewhat presentable.

Her eyes almost immediately fell on the twin medallions that hung around her neck by a single ball chain. On one side, the quarter-sized medallions bore her full name, Angelinka Lucille Jasinski, on the other side, there was a small, but incredibly detailed sword with feathered wings for the hilt pointing downwards. Rays of light appeared to be coming from behind the sword, and at the top of the sword was a glowing halo.

Angela quickly hid the necklace under her shirt. While Delta Team didn't care whether or not she wore the necklace, most of the higher ups frowned at the piece of jewelry. Not for what it was, really, but for what it represented.

Jogging back to the main building, Angela kept the hood of her jacket tightly held over her head. As she stepped back into the main building, Riley looked up from where he was sitting with Alvarez and Roach and whistled loudly.

"Woo! Look who's bringing sexy back!"

Angela returned Riley's comment with an exasperated look and shook her head, droplets of water shaking free of her hair.

"Very funny, Riley."

Walking over from the table that was now covered with maps, Sinclair clapped his hands once and cleared his throat.

"All right, men and woman. You're attention, please." Sinclair paused for a few moments. Once he had everybody's attention, he continued. "Tomorrow morning, zero five hundred sharp, we're going to start running the obstacle course that our British allies have so graciously allowed us to play on."

Roach held back a laugh. Slowly, Angela raised a hand, catching Sinclair's attention.

"I'm going to be running the course, too, right?" she asked. Her mind was already starting to work around the idea of a new course she would have to run.

"That's right, darlin', you'll be running with us. We want to make sure that our allies know how you operate along with the rest of us."

Shrugging slightly underneath her jacket, Angela nodded. She glanced over to her left, where both Ghost and Soap were looking at her. She knew that they were expecting her to be dead weight. To an extent, she was, and that fact didn't sit well with Angela at all. She was the fastest runner amongst them, and she could keep her cool no matter how many bullets were in the air, but years of pushing pencils and typing away diligently at a desk had taken their toll. She had a lot of practicing ahead of her in what was a very short amount of time.

"Nervous?"

Angela looked over, snapping out of her daze. Roach was smiling at her with a reassuring grin, and Angela couldn't help but smile back, albeit a bit weakly.

"Yeah, kind of."

"Don't worry. Everybody has a bit of a rough run through on their first try," Roach said. "Hell, I bruised up both my knees good and proper on my first run. Thought they were going to have to drag me the rest of the way."

Stifling a giggle, Angela quickly glanced back to her left. While Ghost had since turned his attention elsewhere, Soap was still watching her with those sharp, blue eyes. Looking back to Roach, Angela forced a nervous smile and took a deep breath. She then beckoned for Roach to come closer.

"Captain MacTavish isn't still upset with me, is he?" she whispered.

"Soap?" Roach glanced over Angela quickly at his commanding officer, then looked back at her. "I don't think so. Why?"

"He's…well, he's been keeping a pretty close eye on me. Guess I'm just a bit more nervous than I thought."

"Oh, bah," Roach replied with a dismissive wave. "To be honest, dear, it's not very often we have, well, female company around here. I'll bet that Soap doesn't quite know what to think."

While Angela didn't fully believe Roach, she laughed shortly and nodded. There was no point in arguing further, and she was used to her typically male comrades being initially offset by her gender. Just meant she had a little more work to do.


	9. Chapter 9

()

The rain let up during the night around midnight, but that didn't help lull Soap to sleep any more than the constant patter of rain had. Lying on his back on the top bunk of one of the bunk beds, the SAS Captain stared up at the ceiling, sighing heavily. That same anxious feeling had starting gnawing at the back of his mind about two hours ago, and had only continued to work its way through his thoughts as the night progressed.

Wilson didn't trust Angela. Not even in the least. Soap had watched the two during the day, and Wilson had barely spoken a word to Angela, and avoided her as much as he could. When he did look at her, Soap saw nothing but disdain on Wilson's face. Angela, on the other hand, seemed to have tried to make herself as scarce as possible. If she hadn't been working on a computer, she was either sitting off in a corner or speaking to one of the Delta Team members. The most interaction she had had with Task Force 141 was when she had been speaking to Roach.

And again, his nerves were set on edge.

Sighing again, Soap put a forearm over his eyes, muttering a vile curse under his breath. He needed sleep. Especially if he was going to be running through the outdoor obstacle course early in the morning…in the fog…and mud. Not to mention Soap had every intention of setting a new course record, sleep or no sleep.

There was no reason to be losing sleep. The Delta Team seemed perfectly capable of handling anything they may encounter during the mission. Maybe it was the CIA agent that was tagging along? Soap had dealt with intelligence agents before, but they had always been safely stashed away. Far away from the bullets and shrapnel. That wasn't the case this time. This time, one of his main responsibilities was baby-sitting a woman whose most lethal weapon seemed to be a laptop. And to top it all off, all the knowledge that Angela would recover would be in both her computer equipment and in her head, making her a prime target for either kidnapping, execution, both, or worse.

Soap tried not to think about what would happen to Angela if the enemy got their hands on her. Even after everything he'd seen and been through, the methods of torture that Soap was almost sure the enemy would use against Angela made him sick.

Rolling onto his side, Soap stared blankly at the wall. He reminded himself that losing sleep over something that might not even happen was a pointless battle. Closing his eyes, Soap yanked the blankets over his head and forced himself to go to sleep.

It took him another forty-five minutes before he finally dozed off.

()

"Wake up, sleeping beauty! Sun may not be up yet, but we sure as hell have to be!"

Sitting straight up in bed with a jolt, Angela looked over to the doorway, where Church was standing. He was already dressed and had a huge grin on his face…along with dark circles under his eyes.

Scrambling out of bed, Angela fought to find the fatigue pants she had worn yesterday. Church laughed and picked the pants up from the corner of the bed and threw them at Angela, who deftly caught them and then stopped. She stared at Church and raised an eyebrow.

"What? You want a strip tease this early in the morning?"

Rolling his eyes, Church walked out of the room, chuckling to himself. Angela quickly pulled off the woolen pants and blue tank top she had worn as pajamas and then began hopping around as she yanked on the fatigue pants. Tugging her boots on and lacing them up snugly, Angela then retrieved a black t shirt from her duffel bag and hurriedly put it on. She darted out the doorway and was immediately greeted with a blast of frigid, humid air. Stifling the urge to yell a curse at the cold, Angela darted back into her room and grabbed her gray jacket.

She sprinted out of the barracks and towards the main building. As she raced through the door, Angela felt her stomach go into a knot. It looked like everybody from both the Delta Team Steel and Task Force 141 was already there and ready to go. Quickly walking up to Alvarez, Angela cleared her throat softly.

"I'm not late, am I?" she whispered.

Alvarez jumped slightly and looked over at Angela.

"Jesus, _amiga_, nothing like giving me a heart attack this early in the morning." Alvarez then glanced down to the watch on his wrist and winked at Angela. "Lucky you. You've got fifteen minutes to spare."

Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, Angela caught her breath and worked on calming her nerves.

"Always like cutting it this close?" Roach asked with a grin.

"Had to make a grand entrance somehow," Angela answered, laughing.

()

The air was painfully cold, small barbs of ice and snow swirling around in the biting winds. For Nika, though, it was another boring day in Kazakhstan. Wearing insulated snow fatigues, heavy, slip-resistant boots, a thick, wool-lined jacket and faux fur hat, Nika scanned the snow plastered base of operations. It was small, with only a few buildings that housed some weapons, with the main building, a large, double-story warehouse, off to the north of the base.

Striding towards the main building, her boots crunching the snow and ice underneath, Nika let her thoughts drift. She seemed out of place amongst all the men carrying AK-47s and the occasional man that carried a Dragunov sniper rifle. While Nika was armed, she was carrying twin USP .45s, and an AK-47 complete with an ACOG scope attached, her golden blonde hair, pale skin, and dark pink lips made Nika look like something more for a magazine cover than a paramilitary base.

Her thoughts, however, were far less on her looks and far more on her young daughter, who was safe at home with Nika's mother. Or, as safe as she could be. Ever since she had fallen in with the Ultranationalists regime, Nika had always had a nagging fear for her child that chewed on the back of her mind. It had been a full month since Nika had seen Nina last, and as each day passed, Nika grew more and more bitter to the world around her.

Yet she didn't snap at any of the passing soldiers. Nika knew there was no point in getting mad at her comrades in arms. She reserved her hate and venom for the forces she knew were rallied against Russia and her soldiers.

There had already been warnings whispered that a force was being assembled to attack. Nika wasn't sure if the enemy forces knew of their temporary base, or if they were aware of the larger base hidden farther into the Tian Shan mountain range. However, with all the eyes and ears she had scattered throughout the various networks in Russia, United Kingdom, and even a few in the United States, Nika was relatively certain their secrets were safe. For now, at least.

A low hum of a muffled, digitized tune in her right ear brought Nika out of her thoughts. She tapped at the earpiece, picking up the call.

"Da?"

_"Good afternoon, Nika. Have you frozen to death, yet?"_ It was Rodion Sabitov. The calm, unnerving growl that coated his voice and made each Russian word sharp was unmistakable. Nika had only met Rodion three times, and each time, she had seen nothing but a calculating, cold man. He was almost as bad as the man they called Makarov, whom Nika had only seen once. And once was far too much.

_"Not yet, sir,"_ Nika replied, pulling her jacket around her a little tighter. _"Why are you calling? You've never been the one for idle chitchat."_

_"The rumors were true. Those cowards in London are sending their soldiers to hunt us. They think we will run…like scared children. They think we will run and lead them directly to the heart of our operations. They know nothing."_

Nika said nothing for a few moments. Rodion was furious. He, Andrei, and Makar had believed they had more time before the Western forces mobilized. Nika, however, knew better. She had spent years of her life being the hunter, not the hunted. And a good hunter always attacked quickly and with the element of surprise, not according to the itinerary of their enemy.

_"We are ready for them,"_ Nika finally answered, smiling faintly.

_"You had better be. We need you to distract them for as long as possible. We have lost time that we have to make up for however necessary."_

_ "I don't intend to just distract them, Sabitov, you know this. I intend to crush them."_

_ "That would work even better,"_ Rodion laughed.

_"Did Andrei intercept that weapons shipment?"_

_"Yes, our South American weapons supplier stayed true to his word. And the information you intercepted from those buffoons in the United Kingdom allowed us to retrieve the shipment before those British soldiers stole our weapons from us."_

_ "Good. I had wondered if the local gangs were going to cause problems for us. I guess they're smarter than I thought."_

_ "We were…persuasive."_

Nika laughed sardonically. As she walked into the main building, the soldiers guarding the door saluted her smartly. Even after so many years, Nika still felt odd being saluted by soldiers. She had never intended to be a soldier, much less a military leader. During her school years, guns had terrified her. Gunshots sent her running and crying. Now they were so familiar that they might as well be a childhood lullabye.

_"I can imagine."_

_ "Keep the base secured. You will receive new orders shortly,_" Rodion said, ending the call.

Nika breathed out slowly. Rodion always caused her nerves to fray.

She missed Nina.

She really missed Nina.


	10. Chapter 10

()

Halfway through the exercise routine of that morning, the sky opened up and began to rain again. The rain was icy cold, but Angela paid it little heed. She had kept her focus almost solely on keeping pace with Riley as they had ran their five mile jog. The basic exercises hadn't been a problem, and Angela had a two year long gym membership to thank for that. The jog had been relatively easy, other than having to run through thick mud puddles. Angela had always been fond of running, though, and there was something about knowing your life might later rely on your ability to run that gave you extra enthusiasm.

Her hands on the back of her head, Angela walked around slowly, ignoring the faint stabs of pain in her sides as she breathed. She looked up at the sky, a wave of nostalgia hitting her. She'd grown up in Montana, and very often she found herself looking at the same kind of sky. Cloudy, overcast, and raining.

"Still doing all right, girlie?"

Angela turned around and smiled faintly at Soap. He was rain soaked, with mud spattered to about the knees of his fatigue pants, and the rain had made his mohawk a bit unruly, but he was still managing a confident grin.

"Yes, sir," Angela said between breaths. "How about you?"

"Never better," Soap laughed shortly. He motioned to the obstacle course. "Ready for that, though?"

"Maybe…"

Angela glanced over at the course and felt her stomach lurch. She tried to keep her smile, but Soap must have noticed her nervousness. He patted her on the back and winked.

"Don't worry. You'll be fine." Soap started to walk towards the course, then turned and grinned. "Besides, we can't leave you behind anyways, so you'll make it to the finish one way or the other."

"…hurray," Angela mumbled.

"Let's go! Andale, andale!" Alavarez said quickly, jogging past Angela and punching her shoulder. "That thing ain't going to run itself!"

Sighing, Angela followed the rest of the soldiers towards the obstacle course. It wasn't the actually running of the obstacle course that bothered her. It was what it meant if she fell behind. Of course, the solution to that was simple. Don't fall behind.

It took about twenty minutes of a quick run through, and the knowledge that they were going to be monitored as they ran the obstacle course didn't help with Angela's nerves at all. The icing on the cake turned out to be that they would be running through in pairs. Angela's partner was Church.

She was a bit of a special case, however, and she would have to follow Church. Angela knew better than to try and go ahead. Whether it was staged or the real thing, she was the follower, not a soldier. She would be the one uploading or downloading information, not clearing a room of enemies.

Riley and Alvarez ran the course first, and by the time they hit the finish line, Angela had finally hit a far more clearer and calmer state of mind. She followed Church to the beginning, looking down the course. Their first immediate problem was going to be a wall that appeared to be about six feet tall.

"Just like old times," Church said quietly, looking down the course as well. "Stay close. Yell if you need help."

"Right. And hope that I don't need help, huh?"

"You got it."

The buzzer sounded and Church took off, Angela following close behind. Church cleared the wall with relative ease, pausing at the top to ensure Angela had the same luck. While she didn't have the upper body strength, Angela did have momentum, and she sprinted the last few steps, managing to climb the wall. Church was already ahead of her, slogging through the muddy ground towards a rope ladder of sorts. Again, Angela kept pace, maintaining her balance up the ladder.

The next part was simply going down a rope, and Angela caught a glimpse of the finish line. She felt a quick grin flash across her face, and she followed Church down a short sprint. They then had to crawl underneath a mess of barbed wire and wooden planks, but Church fared worse than Angela. She was able to keep close enough to avoid getting scraped by the wire for the most part, while Church wasn't so lucky. Even so, he didn't seem to notice, and they neared the second to last obstacle. It was a few heavy, wooden boxes that they had to climb over, and Church practically leapt up the first two. Angela started to follow suit, her boot hitting the edge of the first box.

And there was the sharp squeak as her foot suddenly wrenched out from underneath her.

Angela felt her breath catch, but she managed to hiss Church's name as she fell back. The back of her head cracked against the gravel, sharp, painful explosions of red, white and black flashing in her vision. Black started to creep around the edges of her vision, but Angela forced it back, scrambling to her feet. Church had already jumped down and was pulling on her arm, yanking her back up. He practically had to drag her up the first two boxes, but as they made it over the third box, Angela felt her focus returning slowly. She nodded to Church, instantly regretting the action as a sharp pain shot down her back, and followed him as he cleared another, smaller wall.

Finally, they hit a straight run towards the finish line.

"Go, go, go!" Church ordered.

Fighting back the pain, at least for the moment, Angela sprinted. Embarrassment and anger kept her aimed at the finish line, and she darted towards the finish line. She easily passed Church and crossed the finish line, slowing down and waiting for her partner. Doubling over, Angela winced as the sharp sting of pain burned across the back of her head. She could already feel the warm touch of her blood on her scalp.

Out of the corner of her blurring vision, Angela could see Alvarez and Riley watching her closely from where they stood by the small building near the course. They were waiting to see if she staggered. Biting her bottom lip, Angela stood up straight, keeping her knees locked. Church, having crossed the finish line, came up behind her.

"Come on. Need to get you inside," he said quickly, putting an arm around her shoulders.

"You all right?" Riley asked as they walked by.

"Yeah," Angela said, keeping her gaze down. She wasn't sure if she was in pain from falling or from the shame of falling. She knew that, had there been bullets in the air, both she and Church would have been shot. And the bitter taste that thought brought up told Angela she wasn't in pain from the fall.

Church sat her down in a metal folding chair. Roach came out of the monitoring booth, carrying a small first aid kit.

"You all right?" he asked, looking at Angela.

"Think so," Angela grumbled.

"You sure? You cut up the back of your head good and proper."

"Eh, she'll be okay," Church said, popping open the first aid kit. He produced a pair of sea-green colored, plastic tweezers. "Fun part first. Need to get that gravel out of your scalp."

Angela winced slightly as Church pulled her hair away from the bleeding injury on the back of her head. She felt the sickening feeling of some of the rocks embedded in her scalp shifting slightly as her hair was moved away.

"Hold still," Church muttered. "Here, hold this mess of hair away. Otherwise I'm going to wind up making you partially bald trying to remove these rocks."

Angela held her hair against the top of her head, gritting her teeth as she felt Church pry the first piece of gravel out of her scalp. Roach made a face as Church set the bloodied rock on a paper towel, then looked back at Angela.

"Um…want some coffee?"

"Yes…coffee. Coffee, please."

Roach walked off, and Angela sighed heavily.

"Wow…that was a heavy sigh," Church commented. "What's wrong?"

"I am beyond embarrassed," Angela grumbled.

"Oh hell, here we go." Church rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You didn't make a mistake!" Angela snapped back.

"My back looks like a cat used it for a scratching post."

"Those are manly injuries! Those are expected injuries! Mine is the fact that I apparently can't walk!"

"What the hell is a 'manly' injury? And you slipped. Those boxes were slick as ice with all the rain."

"You know, you can go and tell your wife that you were running the obstacle course and you had to fight your way through razor wire. That's something that could be considered cool!" Angela hissed as Church pulled a dime sized rock free from her scalp. "Or at least, like I said, it's something that is expected."

"Or somebody might ask, 'Well, jackass, why didn't you go around the razor wire rather than roll around underneath it?'" Church replied.

After Sinclair and Wilson finished the obstacle course, Ghost and Soap left the monitoring room and walked over to where Church was still tending to Angela's injuries.

"She all right?" Ghost inquired, peering at Angela's injury. "Bloody hell, luv, what did you do? Try to pick up as many rocks as you could with your head?"

"I needed new pet rocks," Angela answered. "Soap, sir?"

"Aye?"

"Wouldn't you say that getting your back cut up a bit from the razor wire is to be expected?"

"I would think so."

"Don't encourage her," Church said. "She's got a whole sermon prepared for something like this."

"I do not! I-OW!" Angela yelped slightly.

"Got it. Finally!" Church set a small rock, about the size of a pencil eraser, on the paper towel in front of Angela. "That little bastard was embedded pretty deep. Was almost sure I was going to have to cut your head open to get it."

Roach returned with a steaming cup of coffee and set it down in front of Angela. He looked at the paper towel and did a quick count.

"You had six rocks in your head," he said, looking a bit queasy.

"Yep," Angela replied glumly.

"What's with the long face?" Ghost inquired. "You still made it through the course. Soap and I were sure you were going to pass out. And you sprinted like a bat out of hell."

"If it had been a combat situation, you'd be dragging both Church and me off the damn field!" Angela cried, throwing her hands up in the air slightly.

"Okay, just for that, you get the peroxide," Church said, soaking another paper towel with hydrogen peroxide.

"It'll bleach my hair!" Angela protested. There was silence from the other men, and Angela paused, then grinned weakly. "Oh…right. Never mind."

"You would have been fine," Soap commented, sitting across the table from Angela. "I've seen soldiers that have run that thing a hundred times, and then one day you'd think they were running the course drunk."

"Some of them were," Roach muttered.

"It still makes no difference," Angela seethed. "I fell behind."

"Aw hell, are you on that sermon already, darlin'?" Sinclair asked. He and Wilson had walked into the building and right into Angela's ranting.

"It's no sermon, it's a valid concern. If the Russians put boxes between me and their computers, then we're screwed. I can handle being shot at, knives thrown at me, dogs chasing me, but boxes, hoo boy, I better watch out!"

"There isn't any chloroform in this first aid kit, is there?" Church asked, looking through the contents of the kit.

"Do I not have a valid point?" Angela continued.

"You slipped and fell," Sinclair argued. "We've all done plenty of slip-ups on obstacle courses. Hell, Alvarez got tangled in a rope ladder bad enough he was hanging upside down."

"Yeah, I thought about just staying there and yelling 'piñata' over and over," Alvarez added.

"So stop your complaining," Church commanded, dabbing away the blood on the back of Angela's head.

"Ow..," Angela grumbled, wincing.

"What? You're not allowed to make mistakes?" Ghost asked.

"Well, not such costly mistakes." Angela held still as Church tied a wad of cotton to the back of her head, wrapping a bandage around her head a few times.

"Oh, right, I forgot. Those six pebbles cost Her Majesty an utter fortune to put into the course." Ghost rolled his eyes and shook his head. "And we all live in complete terror of those six pebbles, mind you."

As Church and Angela continued to bicker back and forth, Soap looked over at Sinclair.

"She always this uptight?"

"When it comes to 'keeping up' and not being 'dead weight,' Angela's about as uptight as they come," Sinclair replied.

"She does understand that it was a slip up and, no offense to her, we're expecting her to not be able to keep up, right?" Soap tried to word the question carefully. He didn't want to incur Angela's sermon.

"I've tried explaining that to her," Sinclair answered, sitting down in one of the metal folding chairs. "Angela, though, has been a bit of an athlete since she was twelve, and I think she believes that's supposed to make her able to keep up with Marines, Rangers, and SAS soldiers."

"That's rich," Soap chuckled. "If that's the case, we'd have Olympic athletes kicking our arses and running the world."

"That we would. Just give Angela a bit of time and let her sulk. She'll be back to normal soon enough." Sinclair looked over to where Church was packing the first aid kit back up. "She gonna' make it, doc?"

"Well, it was touch and go there for a bit, sir, but I think she'll make a full recovery. And I get to honestly tell her, 'take two aspirin and call me in the morning.'" Church grinned sarcastically.

Smiling faintly at the joke, Soap turned his attention to Angela. She was currently looking down at the table, but lightly touching the bandages on the back of her head. Soap watched her for a few moments, not sure whether or not to say something. True, she had slipped up on the obstacle course and out in the field that could have very well been a costly mistake. However, Church had responded fast enough, and had Soap been Angela's partner, he would have been expecting the unexpected.

Sinclair, Church, and Ghost had since gotten into a friendly argument over which of them could clear the obstacle course the fastest, and Angela looked up when the three of them started laughing at a joke that Church had cracked. In that moment, Angela looked more out of place than she ever had. She seemed too distant, and too fragile, to be in such an environment. Soap wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Hey, sir, what do you think?" Ghost suddenly interrupted. "Care to go for a new course record in about an hour or so?"

"I was already planning on it," Soap answered with a cocky grin.

"Hear that, Sinclair? You've got competition."

Sinclair looked at Soap and smiled confidently.

"You're on, sport."

Chuckling, Soap looked back over to Angela. She was gone. Soap looked back over to Sinclair, who shook his head and shrugged slightly.


	11. Chapter 11

()

After an hour, the sharp jabs of pain in the back of Angela's skull had dulled to a pulsing throb. She could hear the soldiers of both Delta Team Steel and Task Force 141 cheering and yelling as they fought to set new records on the obstacle course that was still currently holding Angela's dignity and pride hostage.

Sighing angrily and pounding on the spacebar of the keyboard she was working on, Angela lightly touched the bandages on the back of her head. After venting her frustrations on the spacebar, she resumed working on her initial task; carefully putting the keys back on the keyboard. Apparently the keyboard had taken a rather violent fall to the floor and the keys had either been knocked off, broken, or both. While computer hardware wasn't necessarily Angela's specialty, she was still handy enough to get the keyboard fixed.

As the cheering died down, Angela could only assume that a record had been set that was refusing to be broken. She never quite understood the strong, competitive streak that so many soldiers had. She much preferred to stay hidden and break things from the shadows. Of course, that was probably why she had the job that she did.

The sound of talking and footsteps confirmed Angela's assumption, but she didn't bother looking up from her work. She was relatively certain that her friends were bruised, caked in mud up to their knees, exhausted, and pleased as all get out with themselves. Some things never changed, no matter the location.

"Having fun?"

Looking over her shoulder, Angela found herself staring at Soap's stomach, his once white shirt now rain soaked. Blinking, she looked up at him and grinned faintly. Mud was spattered over his fatigues and caked in his hair, and his clothes were rain soaked. Raising an eyebrow, Angela leaned back a bit in her chair and smiled.

"So, did you win?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Aye, set a new record," Soap answered with a grin. He glanced down at the keyboard. "I was about to ask you the same thing about the keyboard."

Angela looked over at the last few remaining keys, then shrugged slightly.

"I think so, but hey, if this is the meanest thing I have to deal with while I'm here, then I think I'm doing good."

"Fair enough. How's your head?"

"Still sore," Angela replied, rubbing the back of her head tenderly. After a moment's pause, she smiled slyly. "But I've had worse. There was this one guy, I think he was Scottish or something. Real jerk. He threw me against a wall and everything. That left me pretty sore."

Giving Angela a sardonic grin, Soap chuckled and crossed his arms.

"I also seem to recall that this unfortunate Scottish bloke got knocked in the face with a laptop by this lunatic blonde haired woman before he had to resort to tossing her across the room."

Ducking her head slightly, Angela tried to hide the flush of red on her face and laughed.

"All right, all right, yeah...I guess the poor Scottish guy had a good reason for tossing the crazy blonde."

Suddenly Sinclair's voice echoed through the hangar over the loudspeaker, asking all personnel to report to the main briefing room. Glancing up at the speaker, Soap looked back down to Angela, who was already quickly putting the remaining keyboard keys back into place. Once she was done, the two walked over to the briefing room. Sinclair was already flipping through a manila folder of papers, and Alvarez and Roach seemed to be in a spirited debate as to whether curry or green chile was hotter. Ghost was watching the two with mild amusement, and Wilson was seated beside Ghost, completely enamored with the cup of coffee he was drinking.

Soap went to look over the papers that Sinclair was looking through, and Angela sat down in one of the metal chairs, shivering lightly against the cold. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Church and Scarecrow walk into the room, closely followed by Riley. Soap and Sinclair were both studying some of the surveillance photos that had been paperclipped to the report. Though she couldn't see what was on the photos, Angela could see Soap tracing some sort of path across the photo.

Watching him draw an invisible path through the photo, Angela bit her bottom lip lightly. Even spattered with mud and looking like he'd run a marathon through a hurricane, Soap still cut an impressive figure. Trying to ignore the light flush of red that was rising to her cheeks, Angela leaned forward slightly, watching Soap a little closer. Every now and then, he'd look up, and she'd catch a glimpse of his ice-blue eyes. They always seemed to have a sharp glint to them, and Angela's thoughts began to wander, wondering if it was possible to make that glint soften, at least for a little while. Angela was-

A piece of paper suddenly hit her square on the nose, yanking Angela out of her daydream and causing her to jump in her chair. The legs grated against the concrete, making a hellacious screeching noise. Glaring over to her right, Angela fixed her scowl on Riley, who was fighting to contain his fits of laughter. To her left, Angela could hear Church making kissing noises and snickering.

"Somethin' you wanna' share with the rest of us?" Sinclair asked loudly.

The three immediately snapped to attention, Angela scooting her chair back quickly to its original location.

"No, sir," Church replied quickly. "Just keeping the mood...light"

"I can hear that," Sinclair answered. He gave Riley a pointed look. "Well, hope y'all are in a good mood now, because there's been a change of plans."

Everybody in the room suppressed the urge to roll their eyes and groan, but in all honesty, none of them were surprised. Rarely did anything in their line of work ever go according to plan. Plans always changed.

"Any chance the Russians called, said it was all just a big misunderstanding, and that they'll be sending us our stuff back complete with complimentary vodka?" Wilson asked.

Angela looked over at Wilson, surprised by his uncharacteristic humor. His face was deadpan, but his tone had been lightly coated with a joking manner, and even Sinclair managed to crack a slight smile.

"Unfortunately not. In fact, we intercepted a couple of their correspondences and, uh...they ain't too happy with us," Sinclair said, clearing his throat.

"To say the least," Soap added.

"In any case, we get to go on a little boat trip," Sinclair continued, holding up one of the photos that he and Soap had been inspecting earlier.

Everybody leaned a little closer, trying to get a better look at the photo. The ship itself was moderate sized, and looked more like a fishing trawler than anything else. The waters around the vessel looking choppy and unforgiving, and there was no sign of life, or any activity really, in the photo.

"A boat?" Alvarez grumbled. "...hate boats, man. Hate the water."

Roach glanced over.

"You picked the wrong island to visit then, mate," he whispered in reply.

"Yeah, we're gonna' be on a boat." Sinclair paused, and then quickly added, "Keep all song lyrics to yourselves."

Soap gave Sinclair a quick, puzzled look, and Sinclair shook his head slightly.

"Don't ask, sport, just don't ask." Sighing slightly, Sinclair held up another photo, this one showed a closer, slightly sharper image of the ship. "According to intel, we had a couple of mercenaries make off with a laptop chock full of codes and coordinates. These codes and coordinates are the most up to date information that we can get on our little Russian friends. Seems they've been pretty busy while we've been gettin' over here. We've heard rumors of a couple new bases bein' built, and while none of 'em could be confirmed by any of our intel agents, this laptop may be able to do just that."

Church raised his hand slightly, catching Sinclair's attention, who nodded for Church to voice his question.

"Sir, what sort of mercenaries are crazy enough to go up against these Russians? They've got a pretty good record of leaving no survivors."

"Albanian."

There was a pause, and Church breathed in sharply, stifling a curse.

"So now we're going to be going against Albanians and Russians?" Riley inquired.

"As of right now, the Russians are our target," Soap answered. "The Albanians had the rather unfortunate luck of crossing paths with this Russian, paramilitary group, and it seems like they're victims more than anything. Not that they've earned sympathy, but the higher ups don't think they're a threat."

Nodding slightly, Riley's gaze fell to the floor. They'd all had run-ins with Albanians before. None of them had been pleasant.

"The boardin' team for the boat is gonna' consist of Ghost, Church, Riley, and Angela. Soap will be goin' on board with you and will be leader," Sinclair stated, looking over the last few pieces of paper. "We don't have a lot of time, either. There's one helluva' storm goin' through and it's probably going to sink that little boat when it blows through. We've got one shot at this."

Sinclair handed the photo of the ship to Church, who, after studying the photo closely, handed it around to the rest of soldiers. Angela was the last to get the photo, and she stared at it for a long time. She was a strong swimmer, and she didn't have any real fear of the water. Her only real fear was of rats...

But there was something about the ship. It was completely deserted, but it shouldn't be. It was already showing signs of water starting to pool around on the deck, and Angela wondered if the ship wouldn't sink with them on it.

"We move out at oh five hundred," Sinclair stated loudly. "Be ready to get your feet wet."

()

The winds had already picked up to a fierce gale, pelting the helicopter with sheets of icy rain and sleet. The chopper buzzed through the storm clouds, shuddering in the strong winds. If the pilot was concerned, he didn't show it. Though Soap was sure that the pilot knew, probably more so than anybody, that a panicked pilot was one of the worst things to have in a storm.

The away team was seated at the back of the helicopter, and all eyes were on the choppy waters below. The sloshing waves were crowned with white foam, and lightning temporarily lit the black waters up to a dark blue. Glancing over the away team, Soap's gaze fell on Angela, who was tugging at her face mask and pulling it over her nose. Small clouds of fog rose as she breathed, and Soap couldn't help but notice how calm she was for somebody that didn't do this sort of mission often.

Small locks of blonde hair poked out from underneath her helmet. They were a stark contrast to the low light and dark fatigues that everybody was clad in. Her dark blue eyes seemed to mimic the ocean waters; they were black until lightning struck, and then Soap could see the dark blue color. Her pale face was almost completely covered by a wool face mask that was to help ward off the cold and wind.

Soap caught himself staring and quickly averted his gaze, mentally berating himself. Losing focus now was not an option, especially since they had one shot at this.

"Target in sight," the pilot's voice crackled over the radio.

Looking out on the left side of the chopper, Soap could see the ship swaying and riding through the waves. It looked barely steady enough to walk around on. Just barely.

As the helicopter flew closer to the ship, Soap double checked the ropes that they'd be using to rappel down to the deck of the ship. After ensuring the ropes were secure, Soap looked over to Ghost and Church, who caught his gaze.

"Let's move," Soap ordered.

As the pilot fought to keep the helicopter steady, Soap slid down the rope to the ship's deck. Landing with a solid thud, water squeaking out from underneath his boots, Soap glanced around, making sure the area was secure. Behind him he heard Ghost and Church land, followed by Riley and Angela. Both Delta Team soldiers and Task Force 141 soldiers scanned the area as best they could, squinting against the pelting rain.

Above them, the helicopter buzzed off to keep a safe distance just in case they had any unexpected aerial company. Soap motioned for the rest of the group to follow him. As they walked down the deck and then down the stairs to the lower deck of the ship, water sloshed around their ankles, a very cold warning that the ship was slowly slipping under the frigid waters.

The hallway had an incredibly eerie feeling to it, with the creaking noises of the ship and the sounds of the storm the only things really audible. Articles of clothing, pieces of paper, and the occasional photo floated through the water. The lights were out, and they had to rely on flashlights attached to their guns to light where they were going.

"Search the cabins," Soap ordered hoarsely. The cold was already starting to bite at his lungs and he was coming to the realization that the ship was larger than initially expected. "Alert us when you find the laptop. Should be one of those ruggedized ones and have Russian written on it."

The ship rocked back and forth as they continued down the hallway, with Soap pushing the doors to the cabins on the left open, and Ghost covering him. To their right, Church was pushing the cabin doors open, Riley covering him. Angela stayed in the middle of the group. She was armed with a .9 mm pistol, while the rest of them were armed with MP5s. Soap was pretty sure, however, that they all hoped they wouldn't have to use their firearms.

"Cabins are empty, sir," Ghost said, glancing up at Soap.

"Same on this side," Church added.

"What about the captain's cabin?" Angela asked, having to strain her voice to be heard over the deafening thunder.

"Should be just up ahead," Ghost answered. "That'd be our best bet at this point."

"Let's move, then," Soap ordered.

As they quickly moved down the hallway to the captain's cabin at the end, Soap noticed that the water was rising up to about mid shin level. They were running out of time.

As they came to a "T" intersection in the hallway, with the captain's cabin right across the hallway, Soap motioned for them to stop.

"Check the corners," he ordered to Ghost and Church.

Confirming that the area was clear, they went across the hallway. The door didn't budge when Soap pushed against it. He motioned once again for both Ghost and Church, who trained their guns at the door. Slamming his shoulder against the door, Soap managed to jar the door open. Water clogged with papers and other assorted debris poured out around his feet. Soap scanned the room quickly, looking down the sights of his MP5. He immediately saw the figure seated at the table. It was slumped over at such an angle that Soap knew the person was dead before the stench of death hit him.

Behind him, Soap heard Riley suppress a gag, and Ghost was coughing lightly. The smell was overwhelming, and the water was still stained a pale pink color from the blood.

"This is too much blood for one person," Church muttered, shining a flashlight down at the pink waters.

"So where are the other bodies?" Riley inquired.

As if on cue, the ship suddenly lurched violently, and the closet door of the captain's cabin suddenly ruptured open, splinters of soggy wood spraying into the air. Riley scrambled out of the way, while Ghost and Church side-stepped the small explosion quickly. Three bodies tumbled out of the closet straight at Angela, who staggered back wildly to avoid being hit. Lunging forward, Soap grabbed Angela by the vest she was wearing and yanked her to him. She lightly thudded against him, and instinctively clutched at his vest, steadying herself and her nerves.

"Shite..," Soap grumbled, looking at the bodies. They were bloated and a sickly pale color, and their clothes, and presumably their bodies, were riddled with bullet holes. Soap looked down at Angela, who was unlacing her fingers from his vest. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Just...surprised me." Angela looked past Soap, then sighed heavily. Already she looked like she was back to being calm. "There it is."

Stepping aside, Soap shined his flashlight on the body at the table. The victim had suffered a far more brutal demise than his compatriots that had been stuffed into the closet. There were multiple stab wounds to the back of the man's neck, and his throat was slashed wide open. Pushing the body aside, Soap kept the light shining on the laptop. Angela quickly opened the laptop, and it booted up almost immediately. The screen lit up the entire room, but the light only made the place seem creepier.

The ship rocked back and forth with its same fervor, and the water only continued to get deeper.

"Any chance you can speed it up there?" Ghost asked, taking note of the cold waters that were now up to his knees.

"Almost got it," Angela whispered, leaning forward and trying to ignore the corpse beside her. "This is almost too convenient. The files are already moved to a single location. They...wait...no, no...wait..."

"What?" Soap asked. "What is it?"

"How long would you say these men have been dead for?" Angela asked Soap, looking up at him, her eyes wide.

"At least twenty-four hours," Soap answered, glancing around. "Why?"

"These files were edited less than an hour ago," Angela hissed.

Whirling around, Ghost, Church, and Riley looked down the hallway, their guns at the ready. Soap pulled Angela behind him. He could hear her still working with the computer, but they had more pressing matters now.

"Forget the computer," he ordered. "It was a trap to lure us out here onto this ship."

"But the data-"

"I said forget the computer!" Soap snarled. He turned his attention back to the communicator in his ear. He had to get in touch with the pilot. "Hotel Two this is Hotel Six. We're coming back up top. We need an evac immediately!"

There was a painful screech of static that left a sharp ringing in Soap's ear, and Sinclair's voice came through.

"Hotel Six, this is Hotel Two. Get out of there, now! You have company and they are armed!"

"Affirmative," Soap answered quickly. He could now hear the footsteps of people on the upper deck. The storm had been masking their footsteps until now. "We're leaving."

Taking point, Soap began walking down the hallway. As of right now, it sounded like their "company" was staying on the upper deck, still searching for them. But it was only a matter of time before they came down to the lower deck. Glancing to his right, Soap caught sight of an "EXIT" sign at the end of the hallway. Riley followed close behind him, and Ghost fell in step. Angela followed Ghost while Church brought up the rear, keeping a close watch on the main hallway.

The ship rocked again viciously, throwing the group against the hallway wall. Above them, Soap could hear men cursing viciously at the rain. The language wasn't Russian, and it certainly wasn't English.

"More Albanians," Riley grumbled.

Right through the exit door, there was a small, narrow flight of stairs that led back up to the upper deck. Water was pouring down the stairs in little waterfalls, and Soap slowly began to ascend the stairs.

"They're coming down to the main hallway," Church whispered, barely audible over the roaring storm.

Making his way to the upper deck, Soap looked around quickly. The ship was definitely sinking, and the waves were only getting higher. They were running out of time that it would even be safe for the helicopter to continue flying.

"Hotel Six, this is Hotel Two, we've got a visual on you...barely. Looks like there's still a couple guys wanderin' around the upper deck, but they're more concerned about the storm. You might be able to get the jump on 'em."

Darting behind a couple of rain soaked crates that were lashed down to the deck, Soap caught a glimpse of the men that Sinclair had warned him about. Riley took cover as well behind another set of crates, keeping Angela close to him. Ghost quickly dashed out of the door, Church close behind him. The two raced behind the crates that Soap was at.

"We barely missed them, sir," Church breathed, keeping a close eye on the door.

"We've still got a couple on the upper deck," Soap replied. "Don't think they've seen us, though."

"Only a matter of time before they do."

Another wave struck the ship, and once again it heaved under the force, but this time, there was the very distinct sound of wood splintering and giving way. There was panicked yelling from the men on the upper deck, and they began yelling at their compatriots down below.

"Take them out before they get reinforcements!" Soap ordered.

There was a short burst of gunfire and the two men collapsed onto the deck. At the sound of the other men below yelling, however, Soap cursed under his breath and gave a quick, wary glance at the doorway they had just exited.

Above them, the helicopter was dropping closer.

"Hotel Two, there are still hostiles on the ship. Be aware that there are still hostiles on the ship!" Soap yelled into his radio.

"Acknowledged, Hotel Six. We'll light 'em up as they show up. We're runnin' out of time to get you off that sinkin' ship."

The helicopter buzzed down, weighted ropes thudding onto the deck. At the edge of the chopper, Sinclair, Wilson, and Roach were keeping their weapons trained on the upper deck.

"Let's go! Let's go!" Soap ordered.

As they raced towards the ropes, bullets suddenly pinged off the rain soaked deck. The group dove for cover, and Sinclair, Wilson, and Roach immediately opened out with cover fire. From behind a pile of tarps and what he hoped was something capable of stopping bullets, Soap could see the rest of the enemy boarding party at both doors leading up from the lower deck. While they were relatively safe from the cover fire that Sinclair, Wilson, and Roach were providing, they still had a chance to take out one of Soap's team members.

"Go, go, go!" Soap barked.

Ghost darted forward and grabbed one of the ropes, and Riley managed to snag another of the ropes before they were forced to scramble behind a stack of crates as more bullets whizzed through the air. The chopper bucked in the winds, and the pilot fought to hold the helicopter steady in the raging storm and the pelting rain.

"If we don't go now, we're all going to drown!" the pilot cried to Sinclair.

"Just one more minute!" Sinclair ordered. "We gotta' give 'em one more minute!"

"Oh holy mother of God..."

The pilot's mollified voice on their radios made everybody look up. A behemoth of a wave rose up above the ship, casting a long shadow across the entire vessel. All gunfire momentarily ceased as the wave seemed to hover for a split second above the ship, like a giant hand waiting to swat an annoying insect.

There was a brief, light mist of water that flashed across the ship...and then the wave came down with a deafening roar.

There was no time to scream, no time to yell, not even enough time to curse the storm that had spawned the monstrous wave as it slammed into the middle of the ship. A horrendous shriek of metal being torn apart and the sound of wood exploding filled the air, only to be drown out immediately by the roar of the wave. The ship snapped in two under the sheer force, and Soap felt himself being tossed into the air as though he were weightless. The brief reprise from being on his feet was interrupted by the shock of icy waters slamming shut around him, and the air was punched from his lungs

Struggling to keep what little air he had left, Soap swam towards the churning surface of the waters. Pieces of the ship floated down to the inky blackness below him, but the main pieces of the ship were still afloat. At least, for now they were.

Breaking through the water's surface, Soap coughed hoarsely, fighting to take in a breath of air and to keep the waters from rushing over him.

"Sir! Soap!"

Barely audible above the deafening storm, Soap could see Ghost still holding tight to the rope. He was hovering just above the churning waters, and above him, the helicopter was fighting to stay steady. Soap could only imagine the panic that the pilot was going through by this time.

Gritting his teeth, Soap threw himself against the waters, fighting to get to where Ghost was. The soldier had his hand extended and was yelling something to Soap, but he was drown out by the thunder and waves.

With Ghost's warning falling on deaf ears, another wave tossed Soap back under the water, but by this time, the cold waters had made most of his body numb. Granted, he had a wet suit on underneath his fatigues, but it could only do so much against the frigid temperatures.

A flash of lightning temporarily lit up the dark waters, and from the corner of his eye, Soap saw something that stood out prominently against the midnight ocean. It was Angela.

She was fighting to free her foot from a mess of netting that was wrapped around a set of crates that were slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Soap had no idea how long she had been fighting to free herself, but judging by her panicked, although weakening struggles, she was running out of time.

Staying below the waters, Soap swam towards her, silently hoping that Ghost and Riley were also working to find Church. Soap had lost sight of him when the ship had been struck in two, and this storm was proving to be completely unforgiving.

Angela didn't see Soap until he was grabbing at the netting, freeing a knife from the sheath at his side and trying to hack through the thick ropes. He glanced up at Angela, who gave him a weak, pleading stare. She was out of air.

Ripping the blade across the ropes with a renewed fervor, Soap managed to free Angela's foot. The crates sunk quickly and Soap grabbed Angela's belt and threw her towards the surface. She swam frantically upwards, Soap helping push her upwards along the way.

Once she reached the surface, Angela gasped loudly, coughing and kicking fiercely against the roiling waters that threatened to pull her under again. Soap grabbed the shoulder of her vest, keeping her head above the water as she fought to get her breath.

"Have you seen Church?" Soap yelled.

Angela looked at him with a confused, panicked look, then shook her head wildly. She looked up, managed to get partially through a shrieked warning, before another wave cascaded onto them, shoving them back under the water. Still tightly clutching the shoulder of Angela's vest, Soap fought to get back to the surface of the water. He managed to pull them both back up, but after having gotten a couple breaths of air, Angela was able to swim back to the surface on her own.

"Angela! Captain!"

The sound of Church's voice echoed faintly, immediately drown out by a clap of thunder. Rapidly turning around, fighting against the water's pull, Soap searched for where Church was.

"Church?" Angela screamed. "Where are you?"

There was a bright flash of light to his left. Turning, Soap saw Church. He had blood streaked down the right side of his face, almost washed away by the water, and was clinging to a piece of floating debris tightly, a flare in his right hand.

"Shite," Soap hissed. He looked at Angela, who had already caught sight of Church. They had to get to Church. That flare could save all three of them. But Soap couldn't lose Angela, and in this storm, it would be all too easy to do so. "Angela, listen to me. I need you to keep up with me! We've got to get to Church, but keep up! If you go underwater, do whatever it takes to get my attention! I don't care if you have to drag me under with you, just get my bloody attention!"

"Okay, okay!" Angela replied, nodding her head quickly.

Church couldn't have been more than five meters away, but when Soap began swimming against the water, Church very well could have been five kilometers away. Ignoring a growing, stabbing pain in his right shoulder, Soap continued to swim forward. He could hear another wave growing closer, which only caused him to swim faster.

The wave hit, and Soap suddenly felt a strong pull on his left boot, his knee popping painfully. Completely submerged, Soap looked down to his feet. Angela had a death grip on his left ankle, but looking down at her, she looked incredibly calm. Her blonde hair floated around her face slowly, and her pale skin looked almost completely white. She reached up to Soap, trying to get back to the surface. Gritting his teeth, Soap grabbed Angela's hand and hauled her back to the surface with him.

Looking back to where Church was, Soap felt a small wave of relief rush through him at the sight of Church being a couple meters closer. He had been swimming to them as well, trying to close the gap between them. And he still had that blessed flare.


	12. Chapter 12

()

The helicopter circled the sinking ship slowly, fighting against the wind and pouring rain. The pilot had a death grip on the cyclic, and his shoulders were starting to burn from the strain of keeping the chopper as steady as he could.

They had managed to pull Ghost and Riley from the wreckage, but Sinclair had kept arguing and yelling at the pilot, ordering him to stay. Sinclair had told them that they weren't leaving anybody behind.

"Over there! Captain Sinclair, look! Three o' clock!" Ghost shouted, pointing.

Sinclair looked down and almost immediately caught sight of the burning flare. He couldn't help but smile slightly seeing that the remaining three soldiers of the away team were all there.

"Get us as close to the flare as you can!" Sinclair yelled to the pilot.

Gritting his teeth tightly, the pilot steered the helicopter downwards and hovered above where the three were clinging to the debris. The helicopter controls fought angrily against his grip, and a warning light came on, warning the pilot that they were almost out of fuel.

"Get them out of there!" he yelled to the soldiers. "We're almost out of fuel!"

Riley and Ghost threw ropes down to the three, making sure they were secure and watching over the edge of the helicopter.

"Grab on!" Riley yelled.

Soap thrust one of the ropes into Church's left hand.

"Hold on tight, mate!" he ordered. "Can't lose the medic, right?"

Managing a grin, Church nodded and tightly gripped the rope, wrapping it around his arm. Turning to Angela, Soap handed her the second rope that fell down to them. She immediately began looping it around her arm, holding on as tight as she could. Soap took hold of the final rope that dropped down, then grabbed the flare and waved it in a wide arc. Almost instantly, the ropes snapped taut as the helicopter lifted up into the air, pulling them free from the icy grip of the ocean waters.

()

The helicopter managed to maneuver through the dark gray storm clouds, finally breaking free of the storm after a few kilometers. The pilot breathed a very long sigh of relief, casting a wary glance at the fuel gauge. They had enough fuel to get back to base, but only that.

Church had already popped open the emergency medical kit that was bolted to the side of the helicopter and had a wad of gauze pads pressed against the laceration on his forehead. Shaking his head, Sinclair looked over at Soap, who was wrapped in an emergency blanket.

"You almost went down with the ship there, Captain," Sinclair shouted over the roar of the helicopter blades.

"Aye, almost, though," Soap replied with a half grin. "We weren't expecting company so soon."

"It was a trap, sir," Ghost interjected.

"Maybe," Sinclair answered, having to steady himself as the helicopter jolted against a gust of wind. "But who set the trap is what I'm more interested in. Those Albanians looked like they were just there to get themselves some good ole' fashioned revenge. What do you think the chances are that they saw what happened to their buddies, left, then came back armed?"

"Are you saying the Russians planned this?" Ghost queried.

"I ain't sayin' anything just yet," Sinclair answered with a shake of his head. "Just somethin' to think about, yeah?"

"Aye, it is," Soap answered. He looked over at Church, who was carefully lifting the gauze pads and looking at how much blood had soaked through. "You gonna' make it, doc?"

"I've had worse injuries from stepping on my kids' Legos!" Church yelled back, grinning.

"What about you?" Soap looked over at Angela, who was wrapped tightly in another emergency blanket.

"Yes, sir," Angela replied, her teeth chattering. She coughed and scrunched up her nose. "I'll do better when I get this godawful sea salt taste out of my mouth, though!"

Both Sinclair and Soap laughed.

"Just wait," Ghost chuckled. "You'll be finding sea salt in places you didn't even know you had."

A quick look of mollification flashed across Angela's face, which only brought more laughter from the rest of the soldiers in the helicopter. She frowned and pulled the blanket up over her face.

"Bah, come on, girlie," Soap grinned. "If we don't tease you, that probably means we don't like you."

"Sinclair! They're picking on me and being mean to me!" Angela whined sarcastically to Sinclair.

"Yer' a big girl," Sinclair answered, waving his hand. "Go beat him up or somethin'. Ya' sure as hell don't need me to save yer' hide."

"Hear that?" Angela said, favoring Soap with a prim little smirk. "My Captain says I can beat you up."

"Care to test that theory?" Soap leaned back against the wall of the helicopter, crossing his arms and grinning. "I'll even be nice. You know…tie both hands behind my back and blindfold me. Actually give you a fighting chance. And all you'd have to do is pin me."

"Whuh-oh," Riley muttered, moving away from Angela.

Soap looked over at Riley, who was grinning faintly.

"What?" Soap asked.

"Uh…you haven't seen Angela…uh…fight," Riley said slowly.

There was long pause of silence before Soap cleared his throat and gave Riley a pointed look.

"You're saying that I'd get my arse handed to me by some scrawny, blonde, CIA agent?" Soap glanced over quickly at Angela. "No offense."

Nodding in acknowledgement, Angela stayed quiet. It had been a while since she had actually sparred against somebody.

"No, no, no, no!" Riley responded quickly, shaking his head. "Sorry, uh…well… Boss, help?"

"Angela's a pretty rough fighter," Sinclair interjected. "We're not sayin' you couldn't beat her, but you might want to reconsider the parts 'bout bein' blindfolded and yer' hands tied behind yer' back."

"Oh really?" Soap asked, looking rather pleased at the idea of a challenge. "So your little CIA agent packs a punch?"

"More like packs a kick," Church grumbled. "I made the mistake of trying to spar with her. I was limping for three days afterwards."

"That was an accident!" Angela retorted quickly.

"Got him right in the inner thigh," Riley grumbled.

Roach, who was the only one close enough to Riley to hear him, winced and sat up a bit straighter.

"Accident or not, I was glad I'd had as many kids as I want," Church replied, cramming the bloodied gauze pads in one of his jacket's pockets.

Soap looked over at Angela, who was looking off to the side and trying to avoid eye contact with Church or Soap.

"I dunno there, mate. Your little CIA girlie doesn't look so tough to me," Soap stated with a grin.

Angela paused, then looked directly at Soap with a deadpan stare.

"You're on…'mate,'" she said flatly, looking a bit annoyed.

"You do know, if she manages to pin you, sir," Ghost said slowly. "We're never going to let you live it down."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence there, Ghost."

"No problem, sir."

Rolling his eyes, Soap looked over at Church.

"She really that bad?"

"She's tough. She's really, really tough," Church said finally, after a moment's pause. "Angela sure can take a hit and roll with it."

"What? The CIA training their agents tougher these days?" Soap laughed.

"Think of it more like a product of her environment," Wilson replied steely.

Church shot Wilson a scathing glare, but Angela just rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, mouthing the word "asshole" as she pulled the blanket around her tighter. Soap raised an eyebrow and tried to get eye contact with either Church or Angela to maybe glean a bit more information, but he didn't have any luck. Only Sinclair seemed to notice, and he just shook his head slightly.

()

_"What do you mean, 'they escaped'?!"_ Yezhov shrieked into the cell phone.

Behind her, two soldiers stood uneasily at the doorway. Nika Yezhov's temper was bad enough, but the fact that Makar Pirogov was sitting against the wall on a rather rickety chair and wearing a faintly amused grin only made them more worried for their well-being. Yezhov, when not infuriated, took care of the soldiers under her command for the most part, and at least tried to ensure they were taken care. Pirogov, however, was a different story.

Pirogov was one of the last people you wanted to be caught by. He almost always had a slight smirk on his face and his blue eyes could stare straight through the toughest of soldiers. They typically called Pirogov in for..."strenuous interrogations" for rather stubborn prisoners, but every now and then he had a habit of simply appearing for reasons only known to him and those higher up on the chain of command.

As of right now, his blue eyes were following Yezhov as she paced back and forth angrily, keeping the cell phone pressed tightly against her ear. And he had that same, damnable smirk on his face. To her credit, Yezhov tried to ignore Pirogov. She had only worked with him twice before, and while they had been in the same group for quite some time, she had been terrified of him both times. She had seen the results of his work. The screaming, the bloody remains of what had once been a prisoner's hand, the frenzied begging to be put out of their misery. It had stayed with Yezhov to this day and the less she had to deal and acknowledge Pirogov, the happier she was.

He was depraved and deadly, and Yezhov wasn't sure which he was more of.

_"There's no excuse for them escaping! We put them on a goddamn boat for you in the middle of the goddamn ocean and you couldn't kill a few soldiers?"_

Lighting a cigarette casually, Pirogov took a long drag before breathing out through his nose. The smoke made him look almost draconic and only made the soldiers wish they were out in the freezing, biting cold. At this point, there was no cold that could be as bad as being stuck in a room with a furious Nika Yezhov and a mildly amused Makar Pirogov.

_"I don't care that they were armed! We told you they were soldiers, you fucking idiot! And-what? There was a woman? A woman was with them?"_

That caught Pirogov's attention and he snapped his fingers lightly. Yezhov turned to him quickly, mindful of her temper and expression. She wasn't so blind with anger that she would risk irking Pirogov.

_"Ask them if she was armed,"_ Pirogov ordered.

_"Was she armed?"_ Yezhov hissed into the phone. _"With a pistol? That's all?"_

_"She's not a soldier, then,"_ Pirogov murmured.

Even his murmur caught Yezhov's attention, and she looked at Pirogov for a few moments before turning her attention back to the phone.

_"Hold,"_ she ordered harshly.

Letting the phone move away from her ear and pressing it against her shoulder to muffle their conversation, Yezhov looked at Pirogov, waiting for him to speak again.

_"It seems the enemy is incapable of doing something on their own,"_ Pirogov mused, taking another drag at the cigarette. _"And this woman may be...useful, depending on her role. We need more information on the Delta team that our enemies in the U.K. brought in. Particularly on any non-military."_

Nodding slowly, feeling her insides chill at the thoughts of what Pirogov would do to interrogate a person, a woman, no less, Yezhov put the phone back to her ear.

_"Listen, you incompetent idiots, you're being given a chance to spare yourselves from being shot on sight. Find out all that you can about the Delta team that those U.K. dogs brought over, and pay particular attention to any details on non-military personnel."_

There was a moment of pause as Yezhov let the unfortunate soul on the other end of the phone acknowledge her orders before ending the phone call with an angry jab at the keypad. She looked over at Pirogov, who was looking at his half smoked cigarette with a bored look on his face.

_"I have to admit, Pirogov, I thought you would be irate over this. You were the one who orchestrated the entire trap on the boat and had our men infiltrate the Albanian rank,"_ Yezhov said, once again mindful of her tone of voice to avoid incurring Pirogov's ire.

_"I am,"_ he replied lazily. _"However, being furious at anybody but the persons responsible for failing to kill those soldiers would be a waste of energy, and you did such an excellent job of being mad on my behalf."_

There was a pause as Yezhov struggled to figure out whether or not Pirogov was insulting her or complimenting her. Ultimately, though, it didn't matter. Even if he was insulting her, there wasn't a whole lot that Yezhov could do except stand there and take it.

Pirogov waved a hand dismissively to the soldiers, who were all too happy to get out of the room, and stood up from the chair. He walked over to Yezhov until he was a few inches from her. He looked down at her with his piercing, nerve wracking stare, the cigarette held in the left corner of his mouth tightly as he continued to grin down at her. Yezhov stood her ground, but felt her insides quiver slightly. She pursed her lips slightly, determined not to show the uneasiness growing in her.

Swiftly, Pirogov grabbed Yezhov's chin, but lightly so. He tilted her head to the right, then to the left, slowly, and his grin widened a little as he removed the cigarette from his mouth. He leaned down, his lips just a few millimeters from her left ear.

_"But, my dear little Nika, you really should keep your temper in check,"_ he whispered roughly. _"One of the last things we need is to have the whole base hear you lose your focus."_

Yezhov jerked her head back, but Pirogov gripped her chin tighter, holding her in place. He continued to stare at her steadily, his smile never wavering, but at this point, Yezhov knew she was playing a very dangerous game. The soldiers had, in a sense, been protecting her from Pirogov, and they were gone.

_"Pirogov..,"_ she said, her tone almost pleading, as she fought weakly against his iron-grip on her chin. She lightly put her hands on the arm connected to the hand that was crushing her face.

_"What?"_ Pirogov replied lazily, tilting his head to the side. His gaze was nothing short of predatory now. _"Do you honestly think I would hurt such a fragile little creature such as you? Why would I do such a thing when I could have such...fun, with you?"_

Panic struck at Yezhov's insides and she struggled futilely against Pirogov. He stood still, holding her face just a few centimeters from his. He took another drag of the cigarette before tossing it aside, the smoke curling from the corners of his mouth. Exhaling slowly, and taking care to not breathe the smoke in Yezhov's face, Pirogov regarded her with the same smirk he had been wearing the entire time.

_"Pirogov, please..."_ This time Yezhov made no effort to hide her fear. She desperately wanted out of the room, away from this madman, and back in the safety of the ice, wind, and snow.

Leaning forward once more, Pirogov appeared as though he was about to kiss Yezhov. Her stomach revolted at the thought and she squeezed her eyes shut, but he stopped at the last possible moment, his lips barely brushing against hers.

_"You really shouldn't fear me, my dear little Yezhov,"_ he whispered icily.

Yezhov said nothing, her body now trembling. Pirogov held her still for a few more minutes before releasing her, reaching into his pocket and producing another cigarette. He lit it with an effortless flick to the lighter he was carrying, then looked at Yezhov, who was barely opening her eyes.

Taking a step back, Pirogov looked out the one window of the almost empty briefing room they were in.

_"If we can catch that woman that was brought in with the Delta Team, that failed trap may prove to be one of the most beneficial ordeals for us."_

Yezhov stood in place, rubbing her chin lightly and thoroughly confused by Pirogov's sudden change in approach. He was now back to being all business as he paced back and forth slowly, his steps deliberate but light.

_"What are you thinking, Pirogov?"_ Yezhov finally asked, feeling some of her nerve return.

Acting as though he was surprised to hear her speak, Pirogov didn't look at Yezhov, but kept his gaze out the window.

_"I am thinking that I need to retrieve some of the tools necessary to extract information from a person who has no intention of talking."_ Pirogov took a deep breath, pausing for a few minutes. _"It is unfortunate that we lost our trap on the boat, but I am far more interested in what a person has to say than any silly laptop. Wouldn't you agree, Yezhov?"_

All Yezhov could do was nod.


	13. Chapter 13

Just as the "Low Fuel" warning light clicked on the dashboard of the helicopter, the landing pad for the base came into view. Breathing another long sigh of relief, the pilot began maneuvering the helicopter towards the landing pad. The soldiers inside the helicopter sat down to avoid being jarred too hard by the helicopter descending towards the ground below.

As it touched down, the soldiers began to jump out of the helicopter and, ducked down, jogged from the landing pad, through the still pouring rain, to the main hall. As they entered the relatively dry building, Roach coughed and shook his head.

"What the hell happened to you guys?"

Alvarez was looking up from where he had been seated and reading a very tattered newspaper. Scarecrow had been sitting across from Alvarez, and had the same, mildly surprised look on his face.

"We went for a swim, what does it look like?" Church grumbled, sneezing and shaking his jacket quickly to try and get rid of any of the excess water.

"I thought you guys were on a boat," Alvarez said, raising an eyebrow.

"We were," Ghost responded. "And then Mother bloody Nature decided we needed to go for a swim and sent her maniacal son the tidal wave to break the damn ship in two."

"Holy shit, man," Alvarez exclaimed. "And you guys made it out in one piece?"

"That we did, mate," Ghost replied, combing his hands through his brown hair quickly to get rid of the seawater still saturating it. "We're a bit soggier than we started out, but we're all still in one piece."

"Damn," Scarecrow grumbled. "Did you at least get the laptop?"

There was a small stretch of silence before Soap shook his head.

"Bloody thing was nothing more than bait for a trap," he muttered. "We-"

Angela coughed lightly and pulled the laptop from the bag she had been carrying on her back.

"Sorry for disobeying your orders, sir," she said meekly.

Sinclair and Soap exchanged glances, while Angela clung to the laptop, the blanket still wrapped around her. Sinclair sighed and shook his head, but Soap said nothing, his eyes studying Angela for a few minutes.

"There any way they're going to be tracking us with that thing?"

"As of right now?" Angela inquired, opening the laptop and turning it on its side slightly. Seawater poured out from the laptop. "I sincerely doubt it, sir. And if I'm able to get this thing back up and running, I can take all the necessary precautions to ensure that they don't track us with this...sir."

Soap glanced over to Sinclair, who looked to be torn between being furious with Angela and wanting to congratulate her. Sinclair caught Soap's glance.

"It's yer' call there, chief," he said quietly. "She was on yer' squad for this run, and she should know better." Sinclair put a bit of a steely tinge on the last part of the sentence, but Angela remained still and quiet, to her credit.

Soap walked over to Angela and took the laptop, studying it. It was most definitely powered off, and there was no telling if the thing would even work after being submerged in water for that long. Turning his attention back to Angela, who was staring right past him, Soap gave her a steady glare before grinning and ruffling her matted, sopping wet blonde hair.

"Nice going, girlie," he chuckled. "I'm not exactly fond of being wrong, but this is going to be one of those rare exceptions."

Angela breathed a long sigh of relief and took the laptop back from Soap as he handed it to her. Around her, the rest of the soldiers were laughing softly at her sigh of relief.

"Thank you, sir," she mumbled.

"Although, you do know this means I'm not going to be taking it easy on you when we go toe-to-toe," Soap said with a grin and a wink.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, sir," Angela replied, grinning faintly.

"Wait, what?" Alvarez said, looking mildly alarmed. "Which one of you putas let poor Soap get roped into fighting Angela?"

"He volunteered for it," Riley replied. "And don't call me a puta, puta."

"Hey, empújelo arriba su asno, el idiota."

"Knock it off, you two," Sinclair chided loudly.

Soap looked back at Angela, his grin a little wider.

"You've got quite the reputation there, girlie. I'm looking forward to this."

Angela laughed, ducking her head so that Soap couldn't see the flush of red that had rushed to her face.

"Oh, I'm sure she's looking forward to it, too," Church interjected with a sing-song voice. "Although for totally different reasons."

Soap raised an eyebrow and looked between Angela and Church. Angela glared angrily at Church, blushing harder.

"Church! You asshole!" she fumed, lunging at the medic and punching his shoulder.

"Hey, hey! No attacking the medic! I have to live!" Church cried, laughing and staggering back. "Sinclair! Help!"

"Now why am I always the one y'all want bailin' yer' sorry hides out of the fire when ya' go off and piss Angela off?" Sinclair demanded with a grin. "Y'all are supposed to be the best of the best and yer' acting like a buncha' half-brained goats."

"Aww, Soap, you have an admirer," Ghost crooned with a wink.

Roach and Scarecrow struggled to stifle their fits of laughter, while Soap favored Ghost with a pointed scowl.

"Keep it up, Ghost," Soap warned. "Next thing you know is you'll be begging the Russians to kidnap you, mate."

"Soap's making idle threats, now. I think it's just the twitterpation getting to him," Ghost whispered to Roach, still grinning.

Roach burst into laughter, and Soap kept his scowl on Ghost, though he was grinning faintly.

"Threatened? Nah, that's a promise there, mate."

Meanwhile, Angela was being somewhat physically dragged from Church by Riley, who had since put a chair between him and the furious CIA agent.

"You always threaten your fellow soldiers?" Wilson asked suddenly.

Angela froze and both Sinclair and Church gave Wilson pointed looks. Roach fell silent and Soap turned his gaze to Wilson, who looked quite calm, even though he had both superior officers staring him down.

"No, I don't," Angela replied curtly. "Seeing as how it was only a joke, I would think most would find my actions somewhat funny. You know, so long as they have a sense of humor to speak of."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're joking or not," Wilson answered. "You've got a rather sick sense of humor, sometimes."

Angela stopped, her eyes narrowing. She held up both hands in defeat, stepping back from both Riley and Church.

"Okay, you win," she said airily. "I'll be working on one of the computers if anybody needs me and my 'sick' sense of humor."

As Angela left, Alvarez turned to Wilson, glaring at him angrily.

"Seriously, man, what the hell is your problem with Angela?"

"The fact that she is still under suicide watch. The fact that she she is, regardless of her training, still just a CIA agent. The fact that she was trained by-"

"Drop it, Wilson. Now." Sinclair's order was in probably the harshest tone that anybody had heard him use the entire mission.

"Actually, mate," Soap said, crossing his arms and looking at Wilson narrowly. "I'd like to hear this bloke out. I'd like to know what stick he's got up his arse in regards to Angela."

"Very well. Go ahead and share yer' goddamn pet peeve with the rest of the class, Wilson," Sinclair snapped.

Ghost glanced around quickly. It looked like the rest of the Delta Team was ready to lynch Wilson, who still looked incredibly calm.

"Well, like I said," Wilson began, "Angela's already on suicide watch and we're having to babysit her. Now I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly keen on having to babysit some CIA agent, even if she's had paramilitary training."

"Suicide watch, eh?" Soap queried. "And you're trying to tell me that you've never gotten a little more than fed up with the Hell we go through?"

Wilson was quiet, even though it looked like he was biting back a retort.

"As for 'babysitting' her," Soap continued, pacing back and forth slowly. "Well, mate, that's part of our job. We may not always like our job, but that's also part of our job. And personally, I'd take 'babysitting' her over most of the bloody idiots we've had to pull out of the fire."

Sinclair watched Wilson closely. He knew what Wilson was edging around, but unless Wilson was looking to bring up some very sensitive information, then he would do well enough to leave the whole subject alone. Wilson caught Sinclair's stare and looked at Soap, standing up a little straighter.

"Understood, sir."

"Good," Soap replied shortly. "Now then, whatever grudge you've got against Angela, you'd best get over it and fast. Because it will not interfere with our mission, will it?"

"No, sir," Wilson answered.

Nodding, Soap looked over at Sinclair. Sinclair still had an odd expression on his face, which looked to be a mix of anger and apprehension, but the Delta Team commander stayed quiet.

"We ain't done yet, Wilson," Sinclair said flatly. "I warned ya' about runnin' yer' mouth."

Soap looked at Ghost, who shrugged slightly, then back to Sinclair, who had already motioned for Wilson to go outside the building. The Delta Team commander followed Wilson outside and shut the door behind them. While the others couldn't tell exactly what was being said, every now and then they would hear Sinclair's voice raise sharply.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" Roach asked slowly.

The rest of the Delta Team had resigned themselves to menial tasks such as ensuring their sidearms were cleaned and good to go and checking their supplies. Soap looked at Church. Out of all the Delta Team, he had the most experience with Angela, and while Soap wasn't looking to dredge up bad memories and feelings, there was something going on that wasn't being said.

"Oi, Church!"

Church looked up from resupplying one of his medic pouches.

"Yes, sir?"

"What was that all about?"

Sighing heavily, Church looked over at Alvarez, who shrugged off-handedly.

"Wilson's got a serious grudge against Angela for a myriad of reasons," Church grumbled, zipping the pouch up forcefully. "Angela's got a bit of a...checkered past, if you will. She was raised by a bunch of people that, well...they're the ones that have made her such a tough bitch of a CIA agent."

There were a few exchanged glances before Alvarez spoke up.

"Thing is, a lot of is it closed off because it happened when Angela was considered a juvenile, so it's in a locked down record. We're not exactly supposed to bring that information up, not even Angela, really. I mean, Sinclair can always give the go-ahead to let that information be known if it's really a pressing matter, but-" As if on cue, Sinclair's voice was heard once again as he continued to yell at Wilson. "Sinclair's a bit busy right now."

"Aye, sounds like it." Soap glanced over his shoulder. "Not even Angela is allowed to talk about it?"

"Not really, man," Alvarez answered. "I mean, she can always tell you, and you might be able to get away with it since you're her commanding officer for this mission, but...she gets a bit uncomfortable talking about it, just as a heads up."

Soap fell silent, but Roach asked the question that had been mulling around in Soap's thoughts.

"That bad, mate?" he queried.

"Yeah...it's..." Alvarez sighed heavily and nodded his head. "...it was pretty bad."

"Is that why she's on suicide watch, then?" Ghost asked.

"Nah, that was just a really bad mission that went worse," Alvarez said, his tone becoming lighter. "She, uh...had the really shitty luck of seeing somebody use a shotgun to take their whole goddamn head off. Really shook her up bad. Looks like it was just the trigger that set off a lot of pent up stress from previous missions, you know?"

"She's fine, though," Church added quickly. "Her last psych evaluations have come back clean." Church laughed shortly. "Hell, they've come back cleaner than some of ours."

"I think they figured out that we're all a bit suicidal for having the jobs that we do," Ghost replied with a grim smile.

()

The gym was a little colder than Soap had anticipated, but he refused to let Angela see him affected by some stupid temperature variation. Angela had said nothing the moment she stepped into the room, her eyes looking straight ahead as though she was in a bit of a daze.

Both Delta Team and Task Force 141 soldiers scrambled to get a seating spot at the east wall of the gym near the sparring area. Only Sinclair stayed standing, watching as Soap and Angela walked to the middle of the sparring area of the gym.

"Allright, you two," he announced, grinning. "First rule is, ya' don't talk about Fight Club-wait...wrong line."

"Get it together, boss!" Riley yelled.

"Keep it up, Riley, and yer' gonna' be runnin' laps around the base until next week."

"So cranky," Riley chuckled, leaning back against the wall.

"As I was sayin' before I was so rudely interrupted," Sinclair continued. "We're gonna' go with the rule that ya' better tap out if ya've had enough. Otherwise, beat the stuffins' out of each other."

"Play nice, sir!" Roach called.

"Aye, so long as she plays nice with me," Soap replied back, never taking his eye off Angela, who had slowly began to pace back and forth in front of Soap. Soap moved a little, placing more weight on his back foot, but other than that he stayed still. The two stared each other down for a few minutes, Angela keeping her slow pace and Soap never taking his eyes off her.

"Woo...such excitement," Alvarez said in a monotone. "If I wanted a Mexican standoff, I'd watch some of my mama's soap operas! Somebody do something!"

"Sounds like they're getting bored," Soap said with a wink.

"Bad news for you," Angela answered quickly, darting forward.

Soap braced himself for the impact...and immediately realized he was in for a far fiercer fight than he'd anticipated. Angela's shoulder slammed into his chest, lifting him off the ground a few inches. He grabbed her shoulders and attempted to lock her arms, but Angela quickly snapped her arms around, breaking his attempt. She darted back, her breathing slow and her gaze steady.

A cough involuntarily escaped Soap's throat as he struggled to catch his breath, and he quickly put his gaze back on Angela.

"You're my kind of fighter, girlie," he wheezed. "Pity it's not going to help you much."

Soap lunged forward, grabbing Angela's arm and snapping it forward, locking her elbow and forcing her to move forward. He swept his foot underneath Angela's, forcing her to her knees. Angela suddenly swung forward with the momentum of the fall, deftly skipping over Soap's foot and bringing her fist into his side. With a sharp grunt, Soap staggered slightly. The laptop to the face had been nothing, as it felt like Angela's fist was attempting to rattle every internal organ he had.

"Steady there, Soap!" Ghost called.

"Girlie packs a punch," Soap hissed through gritted teeth.

Angela's foot suddenly landed on his thigh and she pushed away from him, the sudden jerk of force causing Soap to release his grip on her arm. Angela staggered back, and Soap immediately moved in, taking advantage of the fact Angela was off balance. He crashed against her, feeling her gasp slightly as the air was knocked out of her. He felt a quick twinge of remorse...that was quickly overridden by pain as Angela grabbed his shoulders and swung him around in mid-fall, slamming him against the floor.

There was a chorus of "ows" and "oohs" from the spectators, and Soap quickly slammed his knee into Angela's stomach before launching her off him. She fell back as Soap jumped back to his feet, his side still aching. Angela collapsed to the floor and Soap darted forward, quickly hauling Angela up to at least her knees. If he could get her on her knees, he could lock her head in the beginning of what would be an otherwise lethal neck breaker. Of course, Soap had no intention of actually killing Angela...

Soap doubted if Angela had the same intention when her elbows cracked against his knees, sending sharp bolts of pain through his legs. Growling, he staggered back, and Angela quickly got to her feet, turning around and lunging at Soap once more. This time her other shoulder slammed against him, and Soap turned with the impact, wincing at the sharp pain. He couldn't imagine that Angela was faring any better, but if she felt any pain, she certainly didn't show it.

That is, until she fell past Soap and out of the sparring area, the left side of her head colliding with a metal pole that was used to hold up barbells. A loud, metallic clang echoed throughout the room, and the entire structure shuddered from the impact.

"Holy shit," Roach said, wincing.

Both Scarecrow and Ghost looked mollified, and even Soap paused.

"...better run now, Soap," Church said.

The warning threw Soap off enough that he glanced over at Church quickly in disbelief.

"Heads up, sport," Sinclair called.

Turning his attention back to Angela, Soap finally saw what he had been getting a warning about when it came to fighting Angela. She was already steady on her feet, giving Soap a level glare. If she had been disoriented by the impact, it didn't show.

"Bloody hell," Soap muttered.

With a short snarl, Angela charged forward, hitting Soap with the same, bone-shaking force. This time, though, her foot hooked under his right one and she threw him off balance enough that he once again fell to the floor. Her elbow, though, hit him straight in the gut, knocking the air out of him and causing bright flashes of red and white to appear in his vision.

Angela quickly began trying to get her hands locked around Soap's neck, and it took every bit that he had to outmaneuver her. CIA agent or not, she was more tenacious than some SAS soldiers Soap had trained.

Taking in a breath and then pushing forward, Soap managed to roll Angela so that he had her pinned against the mat, and he pressed his forearm against her throat, using his knees to lock her arms down.

"Bring back any memories?" he asked hoarsely.

"Does this one?" Angela replied, suddenly wrenching her hands free, shoving Soap's arm aside and slamming her forehead against Soap's.

The impact caused Soap to lose focus just enough for Angela to force him off of her and she leapt to her feet. How she wasn't in blinding agony by this point was beyond Soap.

"How many minutes?" Church called out.

"About...five," Angela panted.

"Five? Damn, Soap, you're wearing our poor girl out."

"Aye, well...I think...I'm going to need...a kidney transplant after this," Soap gasped, already on his feet.

"Her punches hurt, don't they?" Alvarez shouted.

"Like hell!" Soap replied.

Angela lunged once more, but this time Soap managed to catch her, much to the displeasure of his arms, which jarred from the impact. The two quickly exchanged strikes, each managing to block most of them, but Soap managed to hit Angela a few more times than she struck him. One of his punches landed squarely in Angela's stomach, and she staggered. It was enough for Soap to knock her to her knees. She quickly fell back, swinging her foot underneath him, knocking him back down. Scrabbling over him so that Angela was sitting on Soap's stomach, she squarely placed her elbow against his lower jaw. Soap grabbed her by the shoulders and grabbed Angela's head. Soap twisted Angela's neck slightly, and he saw the look of disgusted defeat flash across her face. Reluctantly, she tapped her hand against the mat quickly.

Soap instantly released Angela and she fell forward, catching herself with her hands before she fell against Soap. Both of them were breathing hard, but Angela looked downright frustrated.

"Well I'll be damned," Sinclair chuckled. "Yer' gettin' a bit rusty there, Angie."

"I know," Angela grumbled, standing up. She looked down at Soap, who was still gasping to catch his breath. "Good job, sir."

"Good job, my arse," Soap laughed, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "You had me there, girlie. You were just a few seconds faster on tapping out."

"Wait, wait, wait," Ghost yelled, standing up. "You mean she had you there, Soap?"

Realizing what he had said, Soap paused and then cleared his throat.

"Uh...no."

"Oh, Soap," Roach laughed. "You're in trouble, mate. You're never hearing the end of this!"

Rolling his eyes, Soap laughed again, but quickly winced and clutched at his side, managing a grin. Angela smiled weakly, and that's when Soap saw the small trickle of blood going down the left side of her neck.

"Shite, girlie, you're bleeding," he muttered, quickly staggering to his feet. It felt like both his knees had been hit with a baseball bat.

"I am?" she muttered, seeming surprised.

"Aye, hang on. Oi, Church! I think that blow to the head hurt her a bit more than we thought." Soap put a hand on Angela's arm to keep her steady as he tilted her head slightly. He winced at the sight of the bloody bruise against Angela's scalp, her blonde hair tinged pink.

"Yeah, it kind of did," Angela grumbled.

"I'll bet it did," Church said, getting up and producing a few gauze pads from his coat pocket. He walked over to the two and quickly glanced over the injury, then shook his head. "You purposefully trying to get a concussion?"

"Not really," Angela muttered.

"You doing okay?" Soap asked quietly, looking over Angela quickly.

"Yeah, how about you?" Angela replied, smiling faintly.

"Sore as hell," Soap grumbled.

"Wait until tomorrow," Church chuckled, gently pressing the gauze pads against the injury.

"To hell with tomorrow," Soap replied, wincing as he shrugged slightly. "Feels like I got run over by a lorry...repeatedly."

"A what...?" Angela asked, trying to look up.

"Don't move your head, you dum dum," Church grumbled, holding Angela's head steady.

"Sorry. Ow...!" Angela cried as Church applied a bit more pressure to the gauze pads. "Sorry, a what, now?"

"A lorry, luv," Soap answered quietly, watching as Church cleaned the bruise as best he could. "Something a bit smaller than the semi-trucks you Americans use."

"Oh, okay," Angela mumbled.

Church paused momentarily at Soap's answer, then smiled faintly and finished cleaning the injury. He put new gauze pads against the injury, then lifted Angela's hand and placed it against the gauze pads.

"Keep pressure on it and, with a miracle, you should make it," Church chuckled.

"Haha," Angela. She then blinked slowly, and it looked like all of the fighting finally caught up with her.

"Five minutes up, huh?" Church asked.

"Yeah," Angela said, staggering slightly.

Soap quickly grabbed Angela's shoulders, steadying her. He looked at Church quickly, who nodded.

"She's all right," Church said. "That's her little trump card. Angela can take one hell of a beating and unless you just outright shoot or stab her in the head, she'll keep fighting."

"And she can tell you how many minutes she's got before it catches up with her?" Soap asked incredulously.

"More or less," Church replied, looking over Angela quickly, checking her for any more injuries. "It's not completely accurate, but she's pretty good at it."

"Damn. I'm impressed."

"Now then, here comes the fun part," Church said, looking at Soap and guiding Angela from him. "You get to see if you can actually walk. Standing's one thing, walking after having to deal with Hurricane Angela is another."

Rolling his eyes, Soap took a step...and immediately stumbled as his knee gave out. Church grabbed Soap's arm, keeping him from falling, and chuckled.

"Told you," he said.

"Holy shite," Soap grimaced. "Did she break my knees?"

"Doubt it, but it's going to feel like she did. In any case, it won't feel like you won."

"You going to make it, Soap?" Ghost called. Most of the soldiers had either dispersed or were standing up, and the only ones left were Ghost, Roach, and Sinclair.

"Hard to say, mate," Soap replied, rubbing his knee quickly.

"What? The big, bad, CIA agent do more damage than you thought?"

Soap glared up at Ghost, grinning faintly.

"You want to try your luck against her?"

"I think I'll pass, mate," Ghost answered, smirking. "I don't make it a habit of beating up little girls."

Angela made a face at being called a 'little girl,' but said nothing.

"Wankrag," Soap grumbled, taking a few, cautious steps and wincing at each one.

Angela giggled and let Church guide her back to where the rest of the soldiers were, Soap limping behind them.

"Sorry, sir," Angela said, smiling.

"Don't apologize," Soap answered quickly. "I asked for a fight and by God did I get one."

"She got you pretty good a couple times, sir," Roach commented. "That one shot to the side looked like it hurt."

"It did," Soap replied, gingerly rubbing his side. "I think she rearranged my insides a bit."

()

After about an hour, Soap swore he was in more pain that he'd initially been in immediately after the fight. Both his knees were still weak, his side pulsed painfully. The rest of him was incredibly sore, his ribs and chest particularly tender. He could only imagine the pain that Angela was currently in.

"You going to make it, sir?" Roach asked, sitting down at the table across from Soap. He handed Soap a cup of coffee, which Soap gratefully took.

"Not sure, mate," Soap chuckled, wincing slightly. He then shrugged, hearing his shoulder pop. "Nah, I'll make it. It was like fighting a bloody pit bull, though. She lays into you like a tank."

"So you're saying we got off easy in South America?"

"Aye, I think we did. I'm bloody lucky she didn't try to decapitate me with the laptop."

Roach laughed and shook his head. After a pause, he looked at Soap pointedly, his expression going a bit more serious.

"What do you think about her, sir?"

"Angela?"

"Yeah."

"She seems capable enough. We're still going to have to carry her a bit through this mission, but it doesn't look to be as bad as we thought."

"Yeah." Roach paused, frowning slightly, then continued. "You don't think she'll panic or do something overly brash, do you, sir?"

"You mean like we do all the time?" Soap asked with a sardonic grin.

"Maybe," Roach laughed. "But she seemed a bit...out of it on the fight, didn't she?"

"Well, Church said she puts a lot of focus in keeping the pain back so she can keep fighting."

"Really? Damn...that's some serious focus, sir."

"That's what I thought," Soap replied, finishing off the coffee. "I'd kind of like to ask her what the hell she did to get that sort of mindset. Then there's another part of me that thinks I'd be better off not knowing."

()

Angela carefully opened the laptop, making a face at the smell of seawater. There was even bits of what looked to be debris and seaweed stuck to the keyboard. She turned her attention back to the large, rather old desktop computer that she was going to try and use to at least navigate the laptop. ...if that was even still possible.

She tried to pull the monitor up from the table it was resting on, but the thing proved to be far heavier than she had anticipated, and the sudden resistance threw her off balance and sent shocks of pain through her bruised body. With a short grunt, Angela fell onto the table and then quickly stepped back. She angrily kicked the table leg and while it didn't accomplish much, she felt a little better.

"You know, I've tried that before, girlie, and it didn't work. Makes you feel better, though, aye?"

Angela turned around quickly. Soap was leaning against the doorframe of the small computer room, his arms crossed lightly. He had bruises on his arms and one on his forehead, and Angela could only imagine that his chest was sore as all hell. Quickly trying to calm down, Angela looked down at the floor.

"Sorry, sir. Didn't mean for you to see that."

"Bah, I figure you'll see me do far worse," Soap replied, walking over to the table. "Bloody thing's a bit heavy though, yeah?"

"Yeah..."

"What were you trying to do?"

"I just need to move it out a little further out on the table so I can maybe use it to hook up to the laptop and take a look-see at what's inside the laptop," Angela replied, pointing to the middle of the table.

"All right, I think I can manage that."

Angela looked a bit confused until Soap grabbed the monitor and heaved it back to the middle of the table. The table shuddered slightly and Angela moved back quickly, but Soap moved the monitor to the middle of the table and then coughed, dusting his shirt off.

"Heavy and dusty," he grumbled.

"Thank you," Angela mumbled miserably, hanging her head.

"Shite," Soap laughed, lightly patting Angela on the shoulder. "Girlie, if you were able to move the bloody thing on your own, I'd be more than just a little concerned. Not to mention that meant you pulled your punches."

Angela ducked her head, which had a few wraps of a bandage around it, and gave Soap a sheepish grin.

"Sorry about that, sir." She then grinned primly. "I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Soap answered, matching Angela's cocky grin. He glanced her over quickly, wincing inwardly at the sight of the bruises on her forearms. He lightly held her right arm, looking over the bruises. "Sorry about that, girlie."

"Don't worry about it," Angela laughed lightly. "That's the whole point of having a sparring match, right?"

"Aye, I suppose it is." And Soap knew that was the case. Soldiers regularly came back from sparring matches bloodied, bruised, and limping, but still...he couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling of guilt for having hurt Angela. True, she'd left him just about as battered and bruised, but as far as Soap was concerned, that just came with his job.

"Sir? Soap?" Angela queried softly, waving her hand slowly in front of Soap's face.

Chuckling, Soap grabbed Angela's hand, mindful to not hurt her, but just enough to bring a mischievous grin to Angela's face.

"What? You didn't get enough the first time?" Angela teased, a slight tinge of blush rising to her cheeks.

"Maybe I didn't. Have to admit that was a bit of fun, bruises or not," Soap muttered, grinning.

"That it was." Angela leaned forward slightly, putting her forearm against Soap's chest. He still had a firm, but gentle grip on her hand, and was being mindful of the dark blue bruise on her wrist. She winked up at Soap. "I don't know, though. You may have to use a bit of your Scottish charm to get me back on the mat again."

"You never know, luv," Soap whispered. "I can be rather convincing when I want to be."

It was at that point the two realized how close they were to each other, and Angela felt her face warm up again with the the blush that rose to her cheeks. Soap took in a shaky, slow breath, but said nothing, his ice blue eyes locked with Angela's sapphire colored ones. He released Angela's hand and she set it lightly on his chest, taking a small step closer to Soap. Angela reached up slowly, her hand hesitating right above Soap's forearm.

"What're you waiting for?" Soap asked quietly. "I don't bite...too hard, anyways."

Angela smiled faintly, her hand gently grasping Soap's forearm, her cool fingers tracing the pale scars on Soap's tanned skin. Soap lightly set a hand on Angela's shoulder, his hand slowly moving to the side of Angela's neck. He gently held the back of Angela's neck, her blonde hair cascading over his hand completely. Angela's hand ran up his arm slowly and then to his back, and Soap let her pull him closer to her. Her hand gently clutched at Soap's back, her nails digging against his shirt slightly.

Soap lightly placed his forehead against Angela's, mindful of the bandages, his free hand reaching up and brushing a stray lock of hair from Angela's face. Her eyes closed slowly, staying shut for a few seconds, and she seemed incredibly fragile for that moment. Guilt now solidly biting at his conscious, Soap had the sudden, insane idea of ordering her to stay at the base, to not have to run the risk of being hurt, killed, or worse, captured. Here he could keep her safe. Here-

"John...?"

Hearing his name, his real name, snapped Soap out of his thoughts.

"Aye...?"

"You sure of this?" Angela whispered, her eyes opening.

"I am," Soap replied, leaning forward slightly. "You?"

"Definitely." A bit on tiptoe, Angela leaned against Soap, tilting her head up, her hand tracing up from Soap's back to the back of his neck. Soap let her pull him to her, his face brushing against Angela's softly. She paused suddenly, then looked away. "This may be a bad idea."

"I'm full of bad ideas," Soap answered.

"No, I mean it's a bad idea because I think I heard Ghost walking over here," Angela replied quickly, but morosely.

"That you did," Ghost called out from outside the computer room.

Both Soap and Angela quickly took a step away from each other, trying to appear as normal as possible when Ghost appeared in the doorway. At the sight of Angela and Soap standing about two feet from each other, though, he raised an eyebrow and grinned.

"And what were you two doing, then?" he asked.

"If we wanted you to know, we would've told you," Soap answered in slight irritation.

"Do I need to give you two a few more minutes? Maybe some wine and candles?" Ghost inquired, his grin only widening.

"Oh bugger off," Soap grumbled.


	14. Chapter 14

()

Morning broke over the base quietly, but by the time the sunlight had started to chase away the fog that dusk had brought, most of the denizens of the base were already awake and had started to work. Most still cursing their alarm clocks under their breaths.

Sinclair was no different, and when the secretary on base dropped off three manila folders about to tear apart from the papers stuffed in them, he had the idea of flipping the table over and calling in sick for the day. The secretary, however, was in a cheerful mood, and the idea of giving her a heart attack at 0700 hours, however humorous, was just a bit too mean for Sinclair.

Frowning slightly, Sinclair glanced over the contents of the folders quickly. Most of them were intercepted communications from their not-so-friendly Russian neighbors, but a couple were photographs of what appeared to be a base that was still being constructed.

"Morning, mate."

Sinclair looked up. Soap, carrying another manila folder, albeit much thinner, walked into the small office room. The room itself was connected to one of the main buildings and seemed fairly inconspicuous, but the walls themselves were heavily insulated, along with the door being far sturdier. The overall effect kept most of what was talked about in the room from getting outside.

"Mornin', sport," Sinclair replied. He eyed the folder suspiciously. "That better be yer' breakfast, otherwise I'll probably have to shoot ya'."

Laughing, Soap tossed the folder on the table.

"Found out a bit more on one of our targets," Soap stated.

Picking up the folder and looking at the paper, Sinclair raised an eyebrow.

"Andrei Bortsov," he declared somewhat loudly. "Weapons smuggling, kidnapping, and...whoa...seems he doesn't have too much of a problem of killing his fellow patriot."

"Aye, most of them seem to have a pretty itchy trigger finger," Soap said, looking over the rest of the papers strewn on the desk that Sinclair was standing at. "However, turns out that he's a bit more of the up close and personal type."

"I can tell," Sinclair muttered, flipping through some of the photos of people that had been unfortunate enough to become one of Bortsov's victims. "Goddamn...he sure has a thing fer' snappin' necks, doesn't he?"

"Yeah." Soap unconsciously rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to think about the prospect of his neck being snapped as though it were little more than a twig. "However, he's got a mother and two brothers in a small town right on the border of Russia and Ukraine. It's just close enough that they may be using that location as a hideaway of sorts while they get that base in Kazakhstan up and running."

"I'd bet my Dodge Charger on it," Sinclair replied. He paused, then looked up. "Restored the thing from the ground up. Sixty-eight year model."

Soap nodded in acknowledgment, grinning faintly at the proud tone that Sinclair's voice had taken on. Sinclair's attention seemed to turn back to the paperwork, but as he flipped through the papers slowly, he spoke up.

"So what do ya' think of Angela?"

"Pardon?"

"Yer' arms look like ya' tried to beat up a cinder block wall."

"Aye, guess so," Soap chuckled. "Girlie hits hard."

"Yeah, she does. Gotta' admit, though, yer' one of the few that's stuck through gettin' yer' chest almost crushed in."

Wincing slightly, Soap rubbed the still quite sore spot on his chest where Angela's shoulder had made impact.

"Your CIA must be teaching them to fight rougher," Soap chuckled.

"Yeah. That and Angela's almost always got some sort of axe to grind. She's got it in her head she's gotta' keep up with us. Ain't too bad, but ever' now and then, she gets real riled up about it." Sinclair laughed. "Guess ya' know how to push her buttons."

Biting back a retort, Soap nodded slightly in agreement.

"So what are we looking at, Sinclair?" Soap asked, picking up one of the photographs of the base that was still under construction.

"That base that yer' lookin' at," Sinclair said, pointing at the photo with another piece of paper. "It's about to become an even bigger problem than we thought."

"Great. What have our Russian friends done now?"

"Taken hostages."

There was a long pause of silence.

"Hostages?" Soap immediately took the paper that Sinclair was offering him. He glanced over the communications, gritting his teeth as he read the report. Two families, including women and small children, had been caught and were now being held hostage at the facility. Apparently they had wandered in too close. Soap could only guess that they were lucky to have not been shot on sight.

"Yeah. Eight in all. Two families. I'm sure ya' can see that. We were gonna' bomb the place to Hell 'n back, but now...we've got a bit of a problem."

"That we do." Soap read further, picking up the papers for the orders. They had been edited the last minute in response to the intel that there were now hostages. "So we have to get the hostages out, plant charges, and then we level the place."

"Yep. Here's hoping it goes that smoothly."

"Do they ever?"

Sinclair laughed.

"I think if they did, we'd be out of a job, sport."

()

The thick haze of cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the bar like a miniature version of the smog that blanketed the town that most people were inside the bar to forget. The bar itself was dimly lit, with a couple tables having full lighting. The most light came from the five televisions, one in each corner of the bar, and then another right above the bar itself.

A news reporter droned on about some sort of stocks or money increase, Alexei took a long swig of the vodka he had been drinking. The alcohol was as clear as the ice that was floating in it, but still burned like fire with every sip. His blue eyes glanced around the room quickly, taking note of any newcomers into the bar. So far, it was just regulars, and while a couple were rather rowdy drunks, none of them were people that Alexei had to keep a close eye on.

For now, anyways.

His fingers toying with the small pendant on his neck, two quarter-sized medallions with his full name on one side and a sword with a feathered hilt, halo, and rays of light coming from behind it, Alexei took another drink, not even batting an eye at the sharp burn of alcohol. He could barely remember the days when he did wince at the bite that vodka had, although Alexei remembered that tequila and him did not get along well. At all. The mere memory of the vile stuff would cause him to scrunch his nose up in disgust.

_"Mr. Maltov?"_

Hearing his last name, Alexei looked over slightly. Two women, one who looked to be in her mid to late twenties, and another who couldn't have been over twenty, were looking at him with wide eyes. The smaller woman was hiding behind the older one, and while they both looked scared, the younger woman looked downright terrified.

Taking note of their frail frames, and the fact that even if they were armed, Alexei could easily reach the Glock strapped to his right leg and shoot them both before they could even take aim at him, Alexei nodded slightly.

_"We...need your help, please,"_ the older woman continued.

Turning to face the two women, his pitch black hair glinting dimly in the faint light, Alexei looked at them narrowly.

_"My help?"_ he repeated. He smirked faintly. _"I think you two are mistaken. My help is not the type that most seek out, much less two little bean poles of women."_

The women exchanged quick glances, the older one shifting the weight on her feet nervously. She gave Alexei a pleading look, and in that look, Alexei realized she was far more serious than he had initially given her credit for.

_"Please. Will you at least hear us out?"_

Alexei nodded and motioned to the booth seat across the table from him. He took another sip of the vodka as the two women slid wordlessly into the booth. The younger woman was tightly clutching two envelopes, one bulging slightly with what appeared to be money, the other thin be looking to be of equal importance as her fingers dug into the envelope.

_"My name's Mariya, and this is my sister Lana, we live...lived in a small farming town a ways from here. Near the Kazakhstan border."_

Alexei lifted an eyebrow.

_"That's quite a ways for you both to travel."_

_"We need your help,"_ Lana whispered meekly.

Looking between the two quickly, Alexei glanced back over to the denizens of the bar. A couple of men were staring at him, but the instant he met their gaze, they quickly backed down. Apparently Alexei's reputation proceeded him better than he thought.

_"And what would you two need my sort of help for?"_ Alexei asked slowly, bringing his gaze back to the two women.

Slowly and cautiously, Lana slid the thinner of the two envelopes towards Alexei, who nonchalantly snatched up the envelope. Opening it he was greeted with family photographs, their smiling faces slightly marred by the fold marks in the photos. The edges of the photos were worn and on a couple torn, but the faces were still easily recognizable.

_"That's our family and...and our neighbors,"_ Mariya said, her voice threatening to break. _"They...they were taken."_

Alexei looked up momentarily from the photos at Mariya, the dark circles under her eyes starting to glisten with tears, then turned his attention back to the photos.

_"Do you know who they were taken by?"_ Alexei murmured.

_"No. They looked like...like military, but they didn't...act like it."_ Mariya took in a shaky breath, Lana clinging to her arm and looking around the bar nervously.

_"I wouldn't worry too much about the rest of the men in the bar here,"_ Alexei said lowly, setting the photos aside and taking another drink. _"They're not as dumb as they look. At least, for their sake I hope they're not."_

Lana looked at Alexei, then to Mariya, who simply nodded her head.

_"Do you know they were taken?"_ Alexei queried, watching both Mariya and Lana closely.

_"They were just out trying to find some lost cattle,"_ Mariya whispered hoarsely. _"That's when we saw the soldiers. They were yelling at us to get back, and our father...our father tried to explain that we were just trying to find a couple of stupid cows that had wandered off. And...and then..."_

_ "And then...?"_

_ "And then the soldiers started shooting at us,"_ Mariya whimpered, cringing at the memory. _"I ran. I don't remember what they were yelling at me about, but I just ran. I ran home and got Lana. The soldiers...they followed me, but...I think I managed to lose them."_

_ "You 'think' you lost them?"_ Alexei asked, his tone going a bit colder than he intended.

_"It's been over two days,"_ Mariya added quickly, looking startled. _"And I haven't seen them at all."_

Alexei kept his comments to himself. The fact that Mariya hadn't seen these soldiers, even if they were military, meant nothing. If anything, it just meant that they were good at their job. But there was no need to terrify Mariya or Lana any further.

_"You want me to get your families back?"_ Alexei inquired finally, paying close attention to both Mariya and Lana.

The two women nodded quickly, but emphatically. So far...they seemed genuine enough.

_"Or at least...find out what's happened to them,"_ Mariya added despondently.

Alexei nodded slowly, mulling the idea over in his head. He rarely did rescue, much less entire families. His specialty was more in the business of making people disappear...

_"That many people...it'd be expensive,"_ Alexei cautioned, raising an eyebrow and looking at Mariya pointedly.

_"We are prepared to pay you,"_ Mariya said. She looked at Lana, who quickly slid the other envelope over to Alexei. As he'd guessed, it was money. Nowhere near what he normally charged, especially for something this complicated, but it was money. _"I don't...think it's enough, but...I do have...more than money...to offer."_ Mariya had to force the statement out of her mouth, her voice cracking on the last two words.

Lana whimpered quietly, but said nothing, simply leaning against her sister.

Alexei stayed silent, counting the money mentally, but taking note of Mariya's last statement. His stomach lurched in disgust, and a pang of pity struck at his conscious. Taking a couple of bills out of the envelope, he then slid the envelope back to the two women. Lana looked thoroughly confused, but Mariya looked nothing short of panicked.

_"I don't work for free,"_ Alexei stated, folding the bills up. _"But this should buy me another drink, which should suffice. As for your families..,"_ Alexei slid the other envelope with the photos back to Mariya, who looked to be venturing a cautious smile, _"write their names, ages, any other physical details you can think of, such as scars or tattoos, on that envelope. Then give me an address where you can be found and a phone number that you can be reached at. One last thing, if anybody asks, you tell them that you paid me fully for services rendered, and that's it. Nobody needs to know the price."_

Standing up, Alexei handed the photos back to Lana, who quickly scooped them up into the envelope of money. She began to hurriedly scribble names and ages down on the empty envelope. Mariya watched her carefully, an exhausted but relieved smile on her face, giving her more notes to add.

When the envelope was three quarters of the way full of writing, Lana handed it to Alexei, who looked over it quickly, and then folded it carefully into his pocket. According to the address, they were staying at a hotel, which was ideal given the circumstances. He looked at the two women and nodded shortly.

_"Stay warm. I'll be in touch,"_ he muttered. He turned to go back to the bar, but Mariya spoke up, causing him to pause.

_"Wait, please,"_ she whispered. Lana quickly slid out of the booth so that Mariya could get out of the booth as well. Mariya walked up to Alexei, still smiling her cautious smile. At 6' 7", Alexei towered over Mariya, but she maintained her composure.

_"Thank you,"_ she said quietly. _"Thank you so much."_

Alexei studied Mariya for a few seconds, then a ghost of a smile flashed across his face and he lightly patted Mariya on the shoulder.

_"Go back to your hotel room, relax as best you can, and I'll let you know something in about forty-eight hours. Understood?"_

Both Mariya and Lana once again nodded, and they quickly scurried out of the bar. Alexei watched them leave. They looked at nobody as they left, and while Alexei wasn't going to ignore the suspicious little voice that was always in the back of his head, Mariya's pleas had been genuine. Or at least...genuine enough.

Walking back to the bar to order another drink, Alexei began to replay a familiar prayer in his head. So far it had kept him safe, and he could only hope that it held through this time as well.

()


	15. Chapter 15

"Hostages?" Riley repeated for about the third time.

"Hostages," Sinclair replied flatly, blowing a loose piece of dust from the gun clip he was filling for his SCAR assault rifle.

"Hostages?" Riley asked again, a little louder.

Sinclair said nothing, but gave Riley a steady, obviously annoyed glare.

"Got a hearing problem there, mate?" Ghost asked.

"No, I'm just...I really don't like dealing with hostages," Riley said, sounding a little frustrated. "They tend to be all shrieky and panicky and run around flailing their arms around like one of those inflatable wavy arm guys."

Both Sinclair and Ghost stared at Riley, who seemed to feel the need to further his point by partially imitating one of the hostages he described. He flailed his arms around and danced around quickly in a short circle. Sinclair waited until Riley had finished his antics, then clapped his hands loudly and motioned to Riley.

"This, ladies and gentlemen! This is where all yer' tax dollars have gone! This is the man that is gonna' to keep ya' safe 'n protect the good, 'ole United States of America!"

Ghost began to clap slowly and dramatically, putting on a stoic expression. Riley favored them both with an exasperated glare, but neither Sinclair or Ghost relented. Alvarez and Scarecrow, who had been working on a .9mm pistol on a table a bit of a ways away from the three, both stood up straight and began to mimic Ghost's applause.

"...you guys suck," Riley grumbled.

"C'mon, sport, ya' gotta' have to seen that speech comin'," Sinclair replied with a grin.

The applause died down, though Alvarez and Scarecrow were having a rather good laugh at Riley's expense. Ghost crossed his arms and smiled faintly.

"What's your problem with hostages, Riley?" Spying Soap walking over to inspect the work that Alvarez and Scarecrow had done on the pistol, Ghost's grin got a little devilish. "Did one of them beat you in the face with a laptop, bite you, and then kick your arse?"

"I still won that match, Ghost," Soap called out loudly, not even looking up from the pistol.

"Oh yes, yes. We have Captain John 'Soap' MacTavish, S.A.S soldier who occasionally beats up helpless little girls," Ghost quipped.

Though he didn't look up, the scowl on Soap's face was still visible, and both Alvarez and Scarecrow fought to suppress new fits of laughter.

"Well, do you really enjoy working with hostages?" Riley asked incredulously, glancing over at Soap.

"Can't say that I do," Ghost replied, shrugging. "But they're not always as panicky as you enthusiastically described."

"You must have dealt with some different hostages than we have," Riley muttered.

"Honestly, though, Riley, how many hostages have ya' really had to deal with?" Sinclair inquired tersely.

"Montana aside?" Riley asked.

"Montana aside."

"Um...two."

"Bloody hell. You sure do love to complain, don't you?" Ghost laughed. "I've had to deal with at least four hostage situations."

"What happened in Montana?" Scarecrow whispered to Alvarez.

"Rather bad mess, man," Alvarez replied quietly. "Got really bloody. Almost lost Angela, too."

Soap paused, but remained quiet.

"Really?" Scarecrow asked.

"Yeah," Alvarez answered, his tone dropping to a hoarse whisper. Ghost, Riley, and Sinclair were discussing the varying degrees of hostage panic, and Alvarez was obviously trying to use the opportunity. "Angela was working as an informant, but she...she got caught. They really messed her up, too. Thought we were going to lose her."

"What the hell did they do to her?" Scarecrow asked curiously.

Soap glanced up, looking between the two. Alvarez caught the look and looked down, then gave Scarecrow a weak grin.

"Interrogated her. A lot."

Scarecrow started to inquire further, but Soap looked up and tossed Alvarez the clip from the disassembled pistol.

"Nice work, there," Soap commented. "Now if you can get the thing put back together, you'll be in business."

"Thanks, sir," Alvarez replied, flipping the clip over shortly in his hand. "I may leave the assembling to Scarecrow."

"If that's the case, then I may suddenly be needed elsewhere," Scarecrow replied with a wide smile. "I've just been making sure that you didn't completely muck the poor pistol up."

"So does Alvarez still remember how to pull a pistol apart?" Sinclair asked Soap.

"Seems like it," Soap answered with a nod. "Now we get to see if he can put it back together."

"Well, Alvarez, ya've got about ten minutes before we start the debriefing," Sinclair announced. "Riley, go find Angela. She's probably blastin' her poor earbuds with some form of godforsaken music and wouldn't hear the end of the world."

()

The debriefing room was quieter than normal as Sinclair outlined the layout of the base, and only part of it was because Riley was keeping his comments about hostage situations to himself.

The base had been divided into two sections, with what appeared to be a runway and landing area for airplanes and helicopters, along with two hangars partitioned off, and the other section being three large buildings and two smaller ones. Bright red lines outlined the two sections of the base, but the ink had started to seep against the maps, giving it a slightly eerie look of blood trickling around the area.

Intel had reported the hostages as being held in the larger building farthest to the east of the base, but the report itself was over a day old, and there was even some question if the hostages were still alive.

"They've got more patrols 'round the runway," Sinclair said evenly, drawing an invisible line through the runway section of the map with his finger. As his index finger crossed over the red outline, the ink smeared across the map lightly. "I'll be leadin' the team of Wilson, Roach, Ghost, and Riley. Primary objective is to turn that airbase into a landfill. If they can start launchin' anything larger than a party balloon from that runway, they're gonna' be that much closer to blastin' our European allies to smithereens." Frowning slightly, Sinclair tried to rub the red ink off of his index finger, but to no avail. "Captain MacTavish is gonna' be leadin' the team to level those buildings. However, since we've gotten reports of hostages, you little darlins' get the joyous task of rescuin' 'em. Alvarez, Church, yer' gonna' accompany Captain MacTavish." Sinclair then looked over at Angela, who was sitting off in a corner. "Angela's gonna' be our eyes 'n ears throughout this. We've found a relatively safe spot to stash her, 'n she's gonna' try to give us as much of a heads up as she can 'bout incomin' patrols and possible reinforcements if, God forbid, there are any."

"Just don't forget to pick me up afterwards," Angela commented, laughing nervously.

"Don't worry, girlie," Soap replied. "We're not going to leave the smartest one of us behind."

There was a roll of quiet laughter through the room, which quickly died down as Sinclair held up the clearest photo they had of Nika Yezhov. She was standing on the stairs of what looked to be an official building of sorts, and while she was smiling in the photo, it was a predatory, cold smile. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she was wearing a knee-length fur coat, and at her right knee was a small girl, her platinum blonde hair poking out from underneath a large cap.

"We also have reports that Nika Yezhov, one of the Russians that's leadin' this whole mess, is on this base. She may not be the strongest of our four main targets, but she ain't gonna' go down without a fight. An' she's a clever one. She's evaded numerous arrests 'n at least two assassination attempts that we know of."

"Sir, who's the girl in the picture with her?" Church asked, frowning slightly.

"Her daughter, Nina Yezhov," Sinclair replied flatly, letting the photo fall to the table.

Church shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but stayed quiet. His three daughters looked to be older than Nina, and he couldn't quite imagine his small, slender wife Rosemary being the focus of assassination attempts, much less leading some sort of terrorist group.

There was a minute of silence before Sinclair cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the map.

"Nika's been seen at this buildin', here," he announced, pointing at one of the smaller buildings. It was as close to the center of the base as possible, and provided anybody at the top of the building a clear view of most of the base. "An' it gets better. Last we heard, she's been paid a visit by Makar Pirogov."

Sinclair fished a photo of Makar Pirogov out of the papers on the table and held it up. The picture was not as clear as the one of Nika, but it didn't need to be.

Towering over a blindfolded hostage, Pirogov appeared to be overseeing a rather brutal execution of three unfortunate captives. His coal-black hair contrasting sharply against his pale skin, his eyes shadowed out by the lighting and somewhat blurry picture quality, Pirogov looked more like a ghost in the photo than a man.

"Now we ain't sure whether or not Pirogov's still on the base, but proceed with extreme caution with this guy," Sinclair stated. "He's meaner than sin itself an' excels in interrogation. We're gonna' hope that fer' the sake of the hostages, he wasn't there to talk to them. However, if we're lucky, we can take two of our four main targets out with one go."

"Capture or kill, sir?" Roach queried.

"We'd prefer to capture Nika," Sinclair answered. "She's bit more valuable to us alive, but don't take any unnecessary risks, either. Pirogov, well...let's just say there ain't anybody who'd be really sad to see the guy take one right between the eyes."

()

Sipping at the warm vodka, Nika frowned slightly at the burn of the alcohol, then glanced over at the laptop on the desk she was sitting at. The wallpaper was blank, and the only open window on the computer was a map of the base that allowed her to monitor the current patrols around the base. They had just added four more extra dogs to the patrols, which brought the total to seven. Dogs were far more reliable than humans, as far as Nika was concerned. Their only fault was that they didn't have opposable thumbs and couldn't operate guns.

She hadn't been exactly thrilled at the prospect of taking hostages, but Nika also knew that hostages were excellent bargaining chips and she was not keen on killing any more people than absolutely necessary. Even if they had been idiot farmers that couldn't mind their own damn business.

()

Crouched behind a set of ice and snow covered rocks, Angela glanced over the base quickly before going back to the small laptop she had perched on a pile of snow. She had managed to tap into their patrol network, and while Angela had no idea how long that network would be available, she intended to use it to the best of her advantage. In another window on the computer, she could see satellite imagery of the base. It was great for watching for vehicles, but the delay caused from interference made it impossible to use it to track troops.

"You're clear for at least another five minutes, Redbird One," Angela murmured. The ear piece in her right ear hummed with low static before Sinclair's voice broke through.

"Copy that, Redbird Six."

Glancing down at the laptop, Angela frowned slightly. They had canine patrols on the base.

"Be advised, they have dogs. I hate dogs," Angela announced quietly.

"I've always been more of a cat person myself," Soap replied over the comm link.

"Acknowledged, Hotel Six," Angela laughed softly. "You've got a pretty clear window to the first building for about the next seven minutes. The patrol has stopped for some reason. Looks like they're chatting it up with a buddy."

()

Glancing around the corner of the metal sheeted building, Sinclair spied the patrol walking down the runway, their backs to the hangar. He glanced over to the side of the building parallel with the one he was using for cover. Ghost, Riley, and Wilson were using the wall of the building as cover. Ghost looked up at Sinclair expectantly, and Sinclair watched the patrol for a few more seconds before nodding.

Returning the nod, Ghost motioned for Wilson to follow, while Riley crouched down behind the cover of two stacks of what appeared to be wooden panels. Sinclair looked over his shoulder at Roach, who nodded and followed Sinclair into the hangar.

Their footsteps, still crunching with the ice and snow caked on their boots, seemed far too loud and echoed far too much in the empty hangar. There were at least two airplanes, fighter jets from the look of it, but the jets themselves had been opened up, circuitry and greased parts visible in the dim light.

"One charge per jet," he muttered to Roach.

"Got it."

They quickly set the C4 charges on the jets, obscuring them inside the landing gear flaps of the jets.

"How're we lookin', Redbird Six?" Sinclair asked.

"Redbird One, Hotel Three, you've got another patrol incoming, but you should be good to get out of the hangars once they pass."

"Copy that, Redbird Six."

"Got it, Redbird Six," Ghost replied quickly.

Sinclair and Roach darted over to the wall of the hangar where the doors had been slid open slightly. They didn't dare press their backs to the icy metal, on the chance that it would cause some sort of noise and alert the oncoming patrol to their presence, but they could at least faintly hear the men chattering away in Russian.

Both stood dead still as the voices drew closer, keeping their breathing light and steady. The patrol continued on, walking right by the hangar, past the small alleyway with the stacks of wood paneling that Riley had taken cover behind, and then past the second hangar where Sinclair could only hope that the rest of his team had managed to find suitable cover. He could only assume so as the patrol continued past, the two soldiers still talking to each other rather loudly.

()

Hearing the quiet chirp of the C4 being armed, Soap looked over his shoulder at Alvarez and Church. Alvarez was getting to his feet after setting the C4 in the midst of a couple of propane tanks, while Church was keeping a close eye on the back door of the small building they had snuck into.

The building itself looked to be some sort of office building in the making that was currently being used for storage. It had a staircase leading up to a second floor, but the C4 blast coupled with the propane would level the building no matter how many floors it had.

"Got three more charges to set," Soap muttered to the two Delta soldiers. "Then we get to go rescue our unfortunate hostages."

"Woohoo," Alvarez whispered.

"Redbird Six, this is Hotel Six, we've got the first C4 charge set and we're at the entry point building. We've got some ground to cover to get to the second building."

"Copy that, Hotel Six," Angela replied steadily. "You've got an oncoming patrol. Find cover, and then you should be clear to get to a partially built structure between you and the building you need to get to. It should provide enough cover for the second patrol to go by and then you should be clear to go."

"Got it, Redbird Six," Soap acknowledged. "Keep us posted and stay frosty up there. Don't think they gave you a big enough laptop to take out one of these patrols."

"Acknowledged, Hotel Six," Angela giggled softly.

"Awww...you so sweet," Alvarez crooned quietly, glancing at the front door of the building.

The three promptly hid amongst the assorted mess of building supplies and crates stashed inside the building as the patrol walked past the building, only one of the two soldiers visible in the small window of the front door.

"Go," Soap ordered hoarsely.

The three made their way to the front door. It mercifully swung inwards, allowing Soap to quickly look for any possible stray patrols, before they made a dash for the building that appeared to still be under construction. The workers must have been on an extremely long lunch break, as the skeletal layout of the second floor of the building was coated with a thick layer of snow and ice, but the first floor had just enough built to provide cover.

The three found cover once more, and just in the nick of time, as the second patrol that Angela had warned them about rounded the corner of the larger building where the hostages were reported to be and began to walk down the pathway that lead them by the three smaller buildings. Soap watched the two soldiers from his hiding spot behind some loose paneling, his index finger only a breath away from the trigger of his ACR.

The patrol was talking rather loudly, enough that Soap caught Church frowning slightly in confusion, and it took them a few minutes to realize that the soldiers were talking into a short range radio. Focusing on the Russian voices, Soap tried to hear anything that he may have been able to decipher. While he didn't hear anything that sounded familiar, he did hear the voice of the person the patrol was speaking to and it was a distinctly feminine voice. Yezhov. And she didn't sound happy.

Even though he couldn't tell what Yezhov was yelling at the unfortunate patrol, Soap could tell when somebody was getting their arse chewed out for incompetence. He heard the shriek of static, indicating the communication link had been closed, and then the assorted muttered curses from the two patrol soldiers.

They'd be cursing a lot more when the C4 went off.

()

Snarling, Yezhov slammed the radio down on the desk viciously. Apparently the soldiers she was working with were somewhere between stupid and barely aware of the world around them.

One of the hostages had almost managed to escape, only being stopped by the canine patrols, and though the hostage had been captured, Yezhov knew she couldn't risk another, possibly successful, escape.

So much for no bloodshed.

The two soldiers she had just gotten through yelling at had been the unfortunate ones she had chosen to execute the hostage and one other, just to set an example. They'd been reluctant to follow her orders; almost to the point that Yezhov had been tempted to do the executions herself...and add the two soldiers in just for good measure.

She would have been better off just letting the canine patrol eat the hostage.

()

Shifting uncomfortably in the biting cold, Angela looked over at her laptop, wiping the ice and snow away from the screen. She couldn't move very much, for fear of giving away her location, but the numbness that had started in her feet was starting to work its way up to her knees.

How anybody could work in this kind of cold, much less live in it, was beyond her.

The sound of shouting and then pleading shrieks caught her attention, and she quickly scooted over to the edge of her little snowy nest she'd created. Looking through the small set of binoculars she had brought, Angela felt her stomach clench at the sight of two armed soldiers dragging a bloodied and bruised man out of the larger building that was only a short ways away from where she assumed Soap and his team were setting the last of the C4 charges.

The soldiers were yelling at the man, whose hands were tightly bound behind him, and dragged him out onto the icy asphalt. From the doorway of the building, Angela could see a woman being forcibly restrained by two other soldiers. The woman was frantically screaming at the soldiers, and while Angela couldn't hear or understand what was being said, she didn't need to.

"Shit...," Angela hissed.

For a brief moment, she thought about the SCAR rifle she was armed with, but the idea of her trying to save the unfortunate hostage was ludicrous at best. There was no way she could shoot the soldiers from this range, and all she would do was give away her position.

One of the two soldiers began to kick the man mercilessly, while the other soldier watched, visibly disturbed but staying quiet. The woman only shrieked louder, and the two soldiers restraining her fought to keep her from charging the soldier that was assaulting the male hostage.

"Redbird Six, this is Hotel Six, what's going on?"

Soap's voice snapped Angela out of her thoughts and she took a short breath to steady her nerves before answering.

"Hotel Six, looks like they're going to execute one of the hostages," Angela replied solemnly. "Possibly two."

There was a brief stretch of silence.

"Acknowledged, Redbird Six."

Soap's tone had been stern but somber, and Angela winced, turning her attention back to the scene unfolding. The soldier had since stopped kicking the hostage, but had his pistol trained at the hostage's head. He was yelling something and waving his free hand...and suddenly jerked his gaze up, obviously startled. His body suddenly went rigid and collapsed, while his partner wheeled around, aiming his rifle at the doorway of the building before he, too, staggered and fell to the ground.

"The hell?" Angela muttered, leaning forward instinctively to try and see better.

The hostage on the ground looked around in bewilderment, before glancing up. A tall man, the lower half of his face concealed by a thick bandanna, moved forward quickly and hauled the hostage up to his feet. Angela watched as the man holstered a silenced pistol, then produced a knife and quickly sliced through the bonds that held the hostage's hands together.

While a part of Angela was rejoicing at the sight of the hostages being freed, there was the stark realization that the man who had just rescued the hostages was not on their team, and potentially not even friendly. Not to mention he had just taken out four soldiers, who were bound to be noticed missing very soon.

"Redbird One, Hotel Six, there is an unidentified shooter on the base. Repeat, there is an unidentified shooter on the base. He has just freed at least one of the hostages and taken out four armed soldiers."

"This is Redbird One, we have one more C4 charge to set and then we're good to go. If we can get out of here an' at least give the hostages and this unknown shooter a head start to get outta' here, we should be clear. Copy that, Hotel Six?"

"Hotel Six here, I copy. We've got all C4 charges set." There was a brief moment of silence before Soap spoke again. "Redbird Six, any way to tell if this unknown shooter has any affiliation?"

"Negative," Angela replied shortly. "I-"

The sharp sound of barking caused Angela to stop in mid-sentence. The barking was far too close to be any canine patrol on the base, and she swallowed hard.

"This is Redbird Six, I've got an incoming canine patrol. Need to re-locate immediately."

"Run, Redbird Six, get the hell outta' there," Sinclair ordered sharply.

()


	16. Chapter 16

Normally, Angela would have been able to sprint across the ground at a pace at least fast enough to wear the dogs out so that she could put enough distance between herself and the animals to find a decent hiding place. But as she sunk into the snow up to her knees, and the barking drew closer and closer, Angela realized she was about to become some doggie's new chew toy.

She had the laptop securely tucked underneath her right arm, and the SCAR rifle she had been outfitted with relentlessly beat her back as she tried to race through the thick ice and snow. Now she could hear yelling, in Russian, accompanying the ceaseless barking, and all Angela could see was a few, small snow-covered rocks, which would provide no cover at all, and the forest that seemed impossibly far away. If she could somehow make it to the forest, she may be able to climb a tree, hide from the dogs, and take out the patrols if necessary.

One of the dogs suddenly lunged over a snow drift, fog rising from its open jaws, and went straight for Angela's left leg.

While her pant leg managed to stop the dog's teeth somewhat, Angela still felt the dog's jaws crush around her lower leg and the sharp, pinching pain as its teeth broke through her skin. Muffling a shriek, Angela swung around with her SCAR rifle and slammed the butt of the rifle down on the top of the dog's head as hard as she could muster.

It worked.

With a yelp, the dog staggered back, dazed, but not knocked out.

"Run, girlie, run!"

Soap's voice was barely audible over Angela's panicked breathing and the sound of the snow crunching under her feet, but she tried to put on an extra burst of speed...

…just in time to feel the ground fall out from beneath her.

With a short gasp, Angela fell through the snow, her world going a blinding white for a few split seconds. Her boots hit an icy, rocky cliff, her feet sliding out from underneath her abruptly and knocking Angela onto her back. She winced as she felt the sharp jabs of pain from the SCAR rifle stabbing into her spine, but quickly realized she had a much bigger problem. She was sliding at an increasing speed towards ice-covered asphalt. The impact was not going to be pleasant. The laptop suddenly jarred from Angela's grip, flying off into the white snow, the case around it causing it to sink into the snow and completely disappear from view. Hissing a curse under her breath, Angela swung her SCAR rifle around, not wanting it to be damaged in the fall.

The asphalt began to approach at a frighteningly fast pace, and Angela braced herself for the impact as best she could. She was flung clean off the cliff and landed on the asphalt, stifling a yelp at the jarring pain that shot up through her ankles as she threw herself forward, trying to roll with the fall and mitigate the impact. She looked around frantically, spying one of the buildings that she had just, moments ago, guided Soap and his team to. She sprinted towards it, darting inside and trying to hide herself as far into the mess of supplies that she could.

"Redbird Six, this is Redbird One, goddammit...respond."

"Redbird Six," Angela gasped hoarsely. "I think I lost them."

"What the hell happened?" Sinclair demanded.

"I have no idea, sir," Angela replied breathlessly. "There's no way those guys should have found me."

"Well they sure as hell did!"

"They-"

The loud clatter of assault rifle fire cut Angela off in mid-sentence, and she looked around quickly. She heard shouting and panicked shrieking, then more gunfire, but it was shorter and more deliberate.

"Redbird One, Hotel Six?" Angela inquired. "Are you hearing this?"

"Son of a bitch, yeah," Sinclair growled. "Redbird Six, did ya' see anybody else on this base other than us 'n our Russian buddies?"

"No, sir."

"This is Hotel Six," Soap interjected quickly. "The hostages are gone. There's four dead soldiers here. Looks like somebody was in a hurry to stuff them under a work table, but the hostages are gone. We're not the only ones on this base."

()

Biting back a vile curse, Alexei trained his pistol on one of the oncoming dogs, and while the silencer helped muffle some of the gunfire, it was pointless now.

"Keep running!" he shouted behind him.

He could still hear the two families crashing through the woods. While he couldn't fault them for trying to escape as fast as they could, Alexei bitterly wondered if they could possibly make any more noise. He had a waiting pickup a ways away from the base, and in his mind this whole rescue mission had gone much, much better. He had managed to get both of the families free from their bonds, and barely saved one from being beaten to death, and they had been doing good until one of the dogs had picked up their scent.

Then it had been a mad-dash to try and get to the forest surrounding the base as fast as they could. But, in some stroke of luck, the dogs had suddenly picked up a new scent, something that was either stronger or more enticing, and had veered away from Alexei and the families to pursue their new target.

Pulling the trigger, Alexei watched as the dog yelped and collapsed into the snow. He looked up and saw two more soldiers trudging through the snow, and while they weren't aware of Alexei's location just yet, they would be soon enough.

Sliding the Dragunov sniper rifle off his shoulder deftly, Alexei shouldered the sniper rifle and took aim at the guard farthest away. Whispering an apology, Alexei pulled the trigger, wincing at the stab of recoil from the rifle. The soldier fell backwards, the top of his head almost blasted clean off. The second soldier did exactly what Alexei had anticipated and whirled around to see his fallen comrade, and turned to look back into the forest, spying Alexei. And then he did something that Alexei had not anticipated.

The soldier slowly lifted his arms, letting the AK-47 he had been carrying fall to the thick snow, and then fell to his knees. Through the scope of the Dragunov, Alexei could see the man's eyes were squinting against the glare of the sunlight against the snow, but he was watching Alexei closely.

For a few minutes, everything seemed to stand still, and then Alexei began to back up farther into the woods, watching the soldier carefully through the scope. To the man's credit, he never moved and kept his hands above his head. His lips were moving quickly, and while Alexei couldn't tell what was being said, he could only imagine it was a prayer to whomever would listen.

Well...Alexei had been called an ArchAngel before.

Disappearing into the thick forest and shadows, Alexei finally turned and dashed towards where he had instructed the families to run to. He caught up with them after a few kilometers.

"We're almost to the truck," he shouted, urging them onwards. He stayed behind, however, ensuring that none of them fell behind. Far behind him, back at the base, Alexei could hear more shouting and the unmistakable sound of AK-47s being fired, and then more gunfire, but it was something else. Not an AK-47.

The idea that there had been somebody else at the base crossed Alexei's mind, but he dismissed it quickly. There was no point in thinking about that now. He had both families almost to safety. That's all that mattered at this point.

As they came to a clearing in the forest, Alexei saw the truck. He sprinted ahead of the two men at the front of the group and stopped them.

"Wait, wait...!" Alexei commanded breathlessly. He quickly shouldered the Dragunov, using its scope to scan the surrounding woods. Last thing he needed was to come under fire as he was trying to drive away. He saw nothing, however, and then nodded. "Go. Get to the truck."

Alexei didn't need to tell the families twice, and they finished the sprint towards the battered, pale blue pickup with renewed energy. Alexei jumped into the driver's seat, waiting with a surprisingly calm nerve as the men quickly helped the women and children into the cab with Alexei. Once they were as safely seated as possible, the men jumped into the back of the pickup. Alexei did a quick headcount to ensure nobody had been left behind in the fracas, and then quickly started the pickup.

Fortunately, it roared to life on the first key turn, and Alexei punched the accelerator. The tires bit hard into the icy ground, and as Alexei drove the pickup through the forest towards the closest paved road, he heard the first explosion.

()

"Go loud, go loud!"

Sinclair's order had barely escaped out into the frosty air as he and his team began to open fire at the oncoming patrols. The first volley of gunfire had caught them off-guard, but the patrols quickly found cover and began to return fire.

From the left flank, Soap and his team began to lay down another wave of gunfire at the patrols, forcing the soldiers to seek new cover, but reinforcements were fast coming.

"Redbird Six, where the hell are ya'?" Sinclair yelled into his earpiece.

"One of the targeted buildings!" came Angela's hurried response. "I'm getting clear now!"

"Hurry up!" Sinclair ordered, ducking as a bullet pinged off the armored pickup he was hiding behind. "We need to create some sorta' distraction fer' these goddamn pains in the ass!"

"Redbird One, this is Hotel Six, we've got them pinned, but I can already see reinforcements coming from the hangar area. They're going to have you and your team caught in one bloody nightmare of crossfire!"

Snarling in frustration upon hearing Soap's warning, Sinclair glanced towards the hangar that they had just barely gotten away from before the whole thing had gone to Hell in a handbasket. He could see armored vehicles, complete with mounted machine guns, roaring towards them. For the first time in a long time, panic snagged in Sinclair's throat and he looked over at his team, who were still trying to keep the first wave of soldiers at bay.

"Get to cover!" Sinclair hollered, having to shout as loud as possible to be heard over the gunfire. "We've got more company!"

Ghost and Riley glanced over their shoulders, and at the sight of the oncoming armored vehicles, they seemed to share the same panic that Sinclair was working on stamping down.

"Hotel Six, we could really use some cover fire!" Sinclair shouted.

"You got it."

Soap, Church, and Alvarez began to lay down a vicious wave of gunfire and Sinclair and his team sprinted towards an alleyway between two of the buildings. It was no small miracle that those two buildings weren't set to be blasted by C4, but they were still well within a blasting radius from the buildings that Soap and his team had rigged with C4.

A sharp stab of pain rocketed up Riley's right leg, and he staggered forward with a yelp. Ghost snagged him by the collar of his jacket and borderline dragged the soldier the rest of the way to the alleyway. Sinclair was the last one to dart into the alleyway as one of the armored vehicles opened fire with the mounted machine gun, the mechanical scream overpowering the rest of the gunfire.

"Riley?" Ghost yelled breathlessly.

"I'm good, I'm good!" Riley shouted, visibly wincing as he clutched at his right leg, blood welling up around his glove.

"Wilson!" Sinclair ordered.

"Got it!"

Wilson immediately began to wrap a bandage around Riley's injury, while Sinclair tried to see how close the reinforcements were going. He looked at Roach, who was aiming down the alleyway, waiting for any soldier foolish enough to look down the alleyway.

Suddenly, there was a blood-chilling silence as the gunfire came to a halt.

"The hell?" Sinclair muttered.

"Bloody hell," Soap rasped hoarsely over the communication link. "It's Yezhov."

"Any chance for a shot?" Sinclair asked.

"Not in Hell, mate. She's glaring down at us from her little perch in the center of the base, looking real high and mighty," Soap replied. "And if we move, those reinforcements are going to rip us to ribbons."

"Redbird Six, ya' can detonate the C4 from that laptop yer' carryin'. Blast the hangar and we can make a run fer' it," Sinclair ordered. There was a low shriek of static, but no answer. Sinclair frowned and cleared his throat, ignoring the slightly worried looks from his team. "Redbird Six?"

There was silence.

"Greetings, intruders," Yezhov announced over a radio. Her English was clear and concise, though coated with a Russian accent. "As you may have already realized, we have you pinned down and are more than happy to send you to whatever god or gods you may believe in should you persist in this foolish endeavor to sabotage my precious base. However, leniency may be granted if you lay down your weapons and surrender, as I am sure my superiors would be very interested in having a talk with you. I would also like to add that I have come into possession of a laptop that I can only assume one of you so recklessly lost."

"Shite," Soap hissed.

"Should you refuse this generous offer," Yezhov continued. "We will proceed to cut you down and send your corpses back to your governments piece by piece. You have ten seconds to make a decision."

"You can suck it, lady," Riley hissed angrily, biting back another cry of pain as Wilson tied off the bandage.

Yezhov began to count down the seconds slowly, her voice unmistakably gleeful. Sinclair looked at his team, then back down the alleyway. He could hear the armored vehicles slowly moving forward, the ice and snow crunching under their tires.

"Gentlemen," Sinclair muttered, "we may have a problem."

"Can't we blow up the hangar?" Wilson asked quietly.

"And if Angela's inside?" Sinclair asked.

"There's no way she could've gotten that far across the base," Wilson argued. "She's fast, but she's not that fast...right?"

Soap stayed quiet. He knew what would be best for both teams, but there was a sick feeling to his stomach at the idea that, no matter how small the chance, Angela was inside one of those hangars.

"Blast that hangar to Kingdom Come," Sinclair ordered bitterly.

Ghost nodded slightly and hit button on the remote to set off the C4.

Soap felt his insides turn to icewater, and closed his eyes for the brief moment that it took the hangar to erupt into a fireball of heat, flames, and shrapnel. The panicked shouting of soldiers was barely audible over the roar of the explosion and the subsequent explosions as the gasoline tanks in the jets and in the hangar itself erupted.

Sinclair could hear the soldiers running to get either away from the flames or to find a way to stop the quickly spreading inferno, and he glanced to Ghost.

"Get ready to hit the next one," he said steely.

"Roger that."

"You fools!" Yezhov shrieked over the radio. "Kill them! Ki-" Yezhov suddenly stopped mid-sentence, suddenly reverting to Russian. There was the sound of an impact and then Yezhov yelling and her voice shrieking something in Russian, along with another voice, but only the sounds of struggling.

Then there was a loud thudding noise that Soap recognized almost instantly and he couldn't help but grin. It was the sound of a laptop making impact with somebody's face.

The soldiers were looking at each other in mild confusion, and, when the second hangar erupted into a white-hot inferno, sending a shrapnel hurtling through the air like razor-sharp missiles, the soldiers began to yell in panicked confusion, scrambling to get away from the explosion and burning wreckage.

Soap, Church, and Alvarez stood from where they had been crouched behind an armored vehicle with two flat tires, aiming around the corners of the vehicle, and began to rapidly fire at the fleeing soldiers.

"We have to get out of here, Redbird One!" Soap yelled, flinching slightly as a bullet whizzed just a few centimeters from his head.

"Alvarez!" Sinclair roared. "Blast the rest of those buildings! Redbird Six, Hotel Six, we're about to make a whole helluva' lotta' noise! Get ready to run!"

Alvarez fumbled for the detonator for a few seconds, then detonated the C4.

The resulting explosion knocked almost everybody to their feet, or, at the very least to their knees. The entire ground seemed to tremble from the blast, and one of the half-constructed buildings began to creak and groan, the supports giving way as the building began to crumble and collapse to the ground.

"What the hell was that?" Church cried.

Alvarez gave a disbelieving glance at the detonator before looking up at the small buildings they had rigged with C4. Through the thick smoke and flames, he caught a glance of something that looked familiar. While he couldn't read Russian, Alvarez understood the meaning of the crudely printed explosion sign on the side of a stack of boxes.

"Well, mi hermano," he yelled. "You wanted noise! You're gonna' get some fucking noise!"

Church and Soap caught where Alvarez had looked and they all three seemed to realize, at the same time, they were still too close to the blast radius.

"Redbird Six! Stop playing around with that stupid Russian and get your arse outta' there!" Soap ordered.

A crash of glass broke through the noise of the soldiers yelling and the sporadic gunfire. Angela and Yezhov both tumbled through the window of the center building that Yezhov had been surveying the base from. Managing to twist around, Angela landed on Yezhov, landed one last punch to the woman's face, and then leapt to her feet, sprinting to the nearest cover.

Fortunately, most of the soldiers were now far too concerned with getting away from the base and away from the now roaring inferno that was quickly devouring the base. Two soldiers actually stopped and practically yanked Yezhov to her feet and began to drag her away from the base. She was shouting something to them, but whatever orders they were were quickly drown out by the fire.

Sinclair and his team were making a mad dash towards the forest north of the base, each soldier taking turns in laying down cover fire as the rest of their teammates made the run for cover. Riley had a noticeable limp, but he managed to keep up, albeit barely. Soap looked around quickly. Angela was crouched behind one of the now-abandoned armored vehicles, bullets pinging off the sides of the automobile.

"Redbird Six!" Soap shouted, not even bothering with the comm link by this point. "Run! We've got you covered!"

Angela looked up. Her left eye was already starting to black over, and her lip was cut open, but she caught Soap's gaze and nodded slightly. She shoved off the side of the vehicle and began to sprint towards the forest.

"Go, go!" Soap ordered to Church and Alvarez. He caught them exchanging a quick glance, but they didn't question his order. They both began to follow Angela towards as Soap fired short bursts of gunfire at the remaining soldiers that were actually still focused on trying to kill them.

"Sir! You want to catch up?" Church asked over the comm link. He didn't wait for an answer and laid down suppressive gunfire as Soap closed the distance between him and his teammates.

As Soap, Church, and Alvarez neared the tree line, Soap heard Sinclair shouting orders to the helicopter pilots that had been standing by for evac. Looking to his right, he could see Angela barely avoid running into one of the trees as she crashed through the foliage.

After about another seven minutes of charging through thick underbrush and icy snow, the soldiers slowed their pace. They were nearing the small field that had been designated as the evac point, and as both teams neared the clearing, Soap could hear Sinclair arguing with somebody over the comm link. The rest of Sinclair's team stayed quiet, but it was clear from the expression on their faces that they were not happy with what they were hearing. Soap walked over to the team, working on catching his breath. His gear felt ten times heavier, and his right shoulder had the same, familiar ache of pain from being hammered from recoil.

Church and Alvarez followed, and as Soap got closer, he could hear Sinclair's side of the argument.

"Yer' tellin' me...that after runnin' through snow, ice, and the forest...ya' can't get us the hell outta' here 'cuz of the risk of bein' shot down?"

There was silence as Sinclair listened to the response, and he snorted derisively and shook his head.

"Yeah, yeah...right."

Sinclair angrily tapped on the communication earpiece and looked at Soap and then the rest of the teams.

"We get to go fer' a bit of a trek," he grumbled. "Zone's too hot for pickup."

"Anybody want to carry me?" Riley asked, trying to lighten the situation slightly.

There was a quiet roll of chuckles from the rest of the soldiers, and Sinclair looked around the forest quickly, then down at the compass on his wrist. He motioned towards the northeast.

"We've got a couple miles to go, an' then we should be able to get the hell outta' this frozen waste. Keep the formation tight. Last thing we need is somebody gettin' lost in this forest."

"No kidding, mate," Ghost commented. "Fall behind and you're just going to have to be raised by wolves for the rest of your life."

Sinclair laughed and shook his head, and then began to walk through the forest towards the new evac point. Soap looked over at Angela, who was slowly but surely catching her breath. Her left eye was now ringed with a dark purple hue, and a dribble of blood had made its way down her chin from the cut in her lip.

"Church, got a spare gauze pad or something close?" Soap asked.

The medic nodded and dug around in a jacket pocket before handing Soap a small gauze pad packet. Lightly slinging his rifle onto his shoulder, Soap then beckoned for Angela to come closer.

"Oi, come here, you muppet," he said quietly.

Angela looked over at Soap and then took a few quick steps so that she was at his side. Soap tore the gauze packet open with his teeth and had to struggle to get the small gauze pad free of the slick paper wrapper. The thick gloves he was wearing, while they kept his hands warm, were not very useful for trying to get a gauze pad out of its wrapper.

Angela watched Soap for a few minutes, stifling a giggle as Soap fumbled with the paper wrapper. Once he had the gauze pad in hand, though, Soap stopped walking and gently grabbed Angela's chin, holding her steady. She had already slowed to a stop when Soap got the gauze pad free, and stood still as Soap wiped away the blood on her chin and dabbed at the cut on her lip.

"She got you pretty good, didn't she, girlie?"

"She was wearing a ring," Angela replied, her voice slightly slurred as she couldn't move her jaw very much. "Stupid bitch has a really nasty right hook, too."

"Well, being smacked in the face with a laptop will piss just about anybody off," Soap said with a wink. He frowned slightly. The cut was deeper than he thought. "You might end up with a bit of a scar..."

"Nothing new," Angela answered, grinning. She glanced at the scar that ran down the left side of Soap's face, cutting right across his eye. Angela suppressed a shudder at the idea of anything that could leave a scar like that being anywhere near her eye.

"Pretty bad, huh?"

Snapping out her thoughts with a start, Angela realized that Soap had caught her stare. Her was looking at her with those piercingly blue eyes and was grinning faintly. Muting a grumble of embarrassment, Angela quickly ducked her head.

"Sorry, sir," she mumbled, gritting her teeth in embarrassment.

"Don't worry about it," Soap replied with a grin. "But get your head back up, numpty, can't see what I'm doing. That eye looks rather bad."

"This isn't too bad," Angela answered, smiling nervously. "I've been hit far harder."

"Don't doubt it," Soap stated, lightly brushing away the flecks of blood from the small cut in the ring of purple that was around Angela's eye. "All right...come on. We better move before we're left to the wolves."

"Yeah. I'm more of a cat person. And thank you, sir," Angela said, taking a deep breath as her breathing returned to normal.

Both Soap and Angela had to walk at double-time to catch up to the rest of the team, but they easily closed the distance gap. The rest of the team, while walking quickly, was also being careful for the possibility of any soldiers from the base that may have been hiding in the foliage or underbrush.


	17. Chapter 17

"Sorry for the screw up, sir," Angela muttered after a few minutes.

"Well, can't say it was one of your better moments," Soap replied, shrugging under the weight of his gear. "But we all made it out in one piece, yeah?"

"I've really gotten sloppy these past few years," Angela grumbled angrily.

Soap paused and glanced at Angela, the acid in her tone of voice catching him off guard. Angela was glaring at the ground, a new teardrop of blood welling up at the cut on her lip. Frowning slightly, Soap reached over and carefully wiped the blood away with his gloved hand.

"No offense, girlie, but from the looks of your file, that last run in South Africa did a number on you, and taking a couple years off is going to make anybody a bit rusty."

Angela ducked her head slightly at the mention of "South Africa," but seemed to relax a bit. Sighing, she brushed a lock of her hair out of her face.

"Yeah...I guess so."

There was a stretch of silence as the two caught up with the rest of the team, then Soap looked at Church and Riley. They were talking to each other quietly and enamored enough in their conversation that Soap didn't have to worry about either of them hearing him talk to Angela.

"What happened in South Africa, if I may ask?" he finally queried.

Angela furrowed her brow slightly in thought, then looked up at Soap and gave him a half-hearted grin.

"Ever had something that seemed so...typical for the circumstances just suddenly set you off? Just have you thinking you're losing your mind?"

"Aye," Soap replied quietly.

"That...that was really all it was. I mean, there was-I saw-she," Angela stopped, gritting her teeth.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Soap said quickly. Last thing he needed was for Angela to start having some sort of flashback as they were trying to get to the evac point. He gently shook Angela's shoulder, trying to keep her tied back down to reality. "I'm just being a nosey bugger, is all."

Angela laughed quietly and smiled up at Soap. Her breath was shaking, but she mouthed the words "thank you" before turning her gaze back to the team. Soap cast one more quick glance to Angela before putting his focus forward. They were just a few more kilometers from the evac point now.

()

By the time the teams arrived back at the base, night had fallen and a cloud of fog had rolled in across the base. Riley was immediately taken to the medical wing of the base, while most of the other soldiers were content to retire to their quarters. Soap lingered in the main hall for a few minutes, waiting for Sinclair.

"Ya' wanted to see me?"

Soap turned around, slightly surprised that Sinclair had been able to sneak up on him. Sinclair looked exhausted, but he was still managing a faint grin.

"Aye. I wanted to talk to you about Angela," Soap answered. "Although I can imagine you're getting bloody well tired of being questioned about her."

"Does get a bit old, but I've come to expect questions 'bout her," Sinclair replied, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag before exhaling. "...really should quit this habit. My fiancee hates it."

"Aye. I keep telling myself I'll quit one of these days, but then I ask myself the question of, 'why bother?'" Soap chuckled. He paused for a few moments before continuing. "Is Angela...cut out for this?"

"'This' bein'?"

"The mission."

"She give ya' a reason to think she ain't?"

"She slipped up and almost got caught," Soap said, reluctance edging in on his voice. He really didn't like the idea of throwing Angela under the bus like this, but the last thing he wanted was the mission to go south because of a slip-up. Or worse, Angela was captured. "Granted, we all got out in one piece, and we're all just as capable of making mistakes, but Angela...well, she's one person we really don't want making mistakes if at all possible."

Sinclair laughed shortly, looking at the cigarette. His gaze never left the smoldering, glowing end of the cig, but after a few moments, he spoke up.

"Have ya' ever heard of the phrase, 'The end justifies tha' mean'?" Sinclair asked quietly.

"Aye, I have. But what does-"

"I will give ya' that Angela's gone and fallen out of practice, and yeah, she could prolly use a good kick to the ass," Sinclair murmured. His gaze suddenly snapped up to look at Soap. "But if ya' think that Angela's a threat to the mission, we got two options. I can go talk to 'er and give her the what-for, or we can yank 'er off this mission and call in fer' somebody else."

"I'd rather not just yank her because she slipped on some snow," Soap replied, "but if you could avoid giving her a rough 'what-for,' that'd be preferable, too."

"What?" Sinclair laughed, grinning at Soap. "Ya' goin' soft fer' our little songbird?"

Managing a chuckle, Soap rubbed the back of his neck, not exactly ready to confirm or deny such a question.

"She knows what she's doing," Soap answered finally. "That much is for certain. I just don't want to see anybody hurt, or worse. And that includes Angela."

()

"Hey, Angela, need to talk to ya' fer' a bit."

Looking up from the laptop she had been trying to pick the gravel and dirt out of, Angela felt her heart fall to her stomach. Both Sinclair and Soap were standing off near the doorway to the small debriefing room, and neither of them looked particularly happy.

Sighing inwardly, Angela nodded and stood up, ignoring the looks from Riley and Roach, who had been chatting away until Sinclair had spoken up. While Sinclair's tone wasn't necessarily angry, it certainly wasn't a happy tone of voice, either.

"Sir?" Angela asked as she walked up towards the two.

"Step inside," Sinclair said, jerking his head towards the debriefing room.

Not saying anything, Angela quickly walked into the debriefing room, gritting her teeth. She was fairly certain of what was coming, and while she deserved it, it didn't mean it was going to be pleasant.

"I think ya' know what's comin'," Sinclair started, shutting the door behind them. Soap was standing at the desk, while Sinclair was standing at the door. Angela didn't look at either of them, but kept her gaze focused on the wall behind the desk.

"Yes, sir," Angela stated flatly.

"It has come to our attention that yer'...slip-ups out in the field are startin' to cause concern," Sinclair said, walking over to Angela. He wasn't yelling, but his tone of voice was loud enough to keep Angela at rapt attention. "Is this somethin' yer' aware of?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there a reason fer' these slip-ups?" Sinclair asked, looking at Angela narrowly.

Angela ground her teeth slightly, hearing a high-pitched whine start to pick up. She was still hearing her commanding officer's voice, there was no doubt of that, but now...slowly, but surely, there was an echo starting to pick up. And it wasn't Sinclair's voice. It was a voice that Angela had tried to stamp out of her mind for years.

"Angela!" Sinclair shouted. Angela jumped slightly, realizing she had dazed out for a few seconds. "I don't really like repeatin' myself, so I'm gonna' ask only one more time...is there a reason fer' these slip-ups?"

_-Is there a reason you would go against the Orders?-_

"No, sir," Angela said, her voice threatening to quaver.

"Is there any reason ya' might be havin' trouble stickin' to the orders yer' given?"

_-Is there a reason you would falter at the face of evil?-_

"No, sir," Angela answered quickly. The all too familiar voice acting as an echo was putting a steel tone on her voice.

"Is there any reason ya' would put yer' fellow soldiers at risk?"

_-Is there a reason you would sacrifice your family for your own, selfish desires?-_

Angela's gaze suddenly locked with Sinclair's, and for the first time, it looked as though she had just a narrow gaze as he did.

"No, sir!"

"Then ya'd best step up!" Sinclair replied. He took a step back from Angela and looked at her, watching her closely.

_-Then prepare yourself for the rapture and destroy those that would drag us down with them!-_

Angela stayed still, breathing out slowly as the high pitched whine faded from her ears. She let her gaze go back to the wall, but she couldn't help it. Angela glanced over at Soap, who had stayed silent through Sinclair's lecture. Soap flashed Angela a quick, almost remorseful look before going back to a deadpan expression. Angela sighed and looked back at Sinclair, who shook his head slightly.

"I know ya've gotten a bit rusty," Sinclair muttered, "but ya' gotta' know we can't afford too many slip-ups on this mission, allright?"

"Yes, sir."

"Trust me, it ain't that I like yellin', regardless of what Wilson'll tell ya'," Sinclair said with a chuckle.

Angela laughed quietly and nodded her head, grateful for the fact that Sinclair was trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"If you're needing access to the firing range or sparring room, you just have to ask, girlie," Soap added. "We're not that much of an exclusive bunch."

Smiling, Angela nodded again. Inside, though, she felt sick. She knew what Sinclair had said was right, and that he had every right to lecture her. She just hadn't been overly keen on the idea of tapping back into a side of her mind that she was just as happy to keep closed off. But it definitely gave her an edge. An edge that, from the sounds of it, was needed by this point.

"Ya' still with us?" Sinclair asked, waving a hand in front of Angela's face.

Angela's gaze slowly tracked up to Sinclair's, but it was direct and her smile was borderline predatory.

"Yes, sir," Angela replied softly.

Sinclair raised an eyebrow and looked at Angela a little closer.

"Ya' sure yer' okay?" he muttered.

"I'm fine," Angela insisted. "Just...lot to think about, you know?"

"Well, ya' should have a bit of down-time fer' now," Sinclair answered. "We ain't got orders to move out anytime soon, so take advantage of this break while ya' can."

"Got it," Angela replied with a nod.

"Allright, allright, yer' free," Sinclair said with a chuckle. "Get outta' here."

Laughing quietly, Angela quickly exited the room...and almost plowed into Riley.

"Whoa!" Riley cried, stepping back quickly. "Easy there, killer!"

"Sorry," Angela replied shortly, jumping back.

"So...what's up?" Riley asked, keeping pace with Angela as she walked away from the debriefing room, despite his limp.

"Sinclair told me I need to either shape up or ship out," Angela mumbled. "In nicer terms, but that's basically it."

"What? Why?" Riley shouted. He quickly stopped and then lowered his voice. "What the hell has Sinclair got against you?"

"Oh come on, Riley," Angela grumbled. "You should know what's going on. I've been making sloppy mistakes even before we got shipped over here. We can't afford stupid mistakes like the ones I've been making."

"Yeah, but...you got taken off the roster for missions like this ever since South Africa," Riley argued. "They can't expect you to just fall right back into being Viking Warrior Woman."

"Yeah, but I need to fall right back into being...um...Viking Warrior Woman," Angela laughed at the last three words. "And you know that."

"Yeah, yeah," Riley muttered under his breath. He glanced over his shoulder to where Sinclair and Soap were standing, talking to each other. "Didn't sound like Sinclair gave you too much of the third degree, though."

"Oh no," Angela replied, slowing her pace. She felt guilty for making Riley limp quickly to keep up with her. "He went pretty easy on me, all things considered. It's just...irritating, you know?"

"I can imagine. But what is Sinclair expecting you to do?"

"I'm going to have to bust my ass. It's not going to be easy, but I have to. How's your leg, by the way?"

"It's getting better. Bullet just grazed me, anyways. What about you? Heard you got turned into a puppy's chew toy."

"It's minor," Angela replied quickly. "Dumb dog did tear up a good pair of pants, though."


	18. Chapter 18

()

Alexei watched the two families walk down the puddle-ridden street from the rearview mirror of the pickup. They had been shaken and terrified, but there had been minimal injuries, all things considered, and they had managed to get away from the base before it sounded like the entire place had blasted to bits.

Alexei had considered going back to the base, trying to find out what had happened, what had been the cause for the earth-shuddering explosions, but the risk far outweighed his curiosity. There was still a very good chance that there were still soldiers at the base, and if it had been attacked, there was an even better chance that the soldiers would be infuriated and looking for somebody to shoot.

And Alexei had no intent of being a target.

Chuckling slightly, Alexei looked at the small wad of money that the father of one of the families had insisted he keep. Alexei didn't necessarily need the money. His family had all insisted that he come home if he ever needed help or a place to stay. And Alexei made more than enough money from people that had...less than scrupulous reasons for seeking him out. It wasn't pretty, and it certainly wasn't what Alexei had expected to end up doing, but it felt like it was the only thing he knew how to do well at this point in his life.

Maybe later on he'd end up doing something he actually enjoyed... Like writing, or even running some sort of small business.

Suddenly a pang of homesickness hit Alexei, and he frowned, starting the pickup truck and letting the motor idle for a few minutes. He turned the heater on, feeling the initial blast of cold air from the vents slowly start to warm up. He was too far from home to simply drive back. It'd be another night in a hotel room.

Driving down the streets slowly, Alexei turned towards the first hotel he saw that looked out of the way enough that he could savor some peace and quiet. Or at least, be lost in the crowd. He parked the pickup slowly, mindful of the bright yellow stopping barrier at the front of the parking spot. Alexei had a bad habit of always hitting those...

After getting the keycard for the room, Alexei stopped at a vending machine. His other bad habit was Dr. Pepper sodas.

As he unlocked the door to his hotel room, Alexei glanced down the hallway. The hotel itself was nice enough, with the doorways to the rooms being indoors and the hallways were carpeted with plush red and yellow diamond carpet that had been worn down over the years. Alexei's room was on the second floor, and the door was polished with what looked to be a fairly new coat of varnish, causing the sand colored wood of the door to gleam in the hallway light.

The lock beeped quietly as Alexei slid the keycard into the reader, and Alexei quickly opened the door. Looking around the room, Alexei sighed as the door closed behind him. He staggered over to the bed and fell back onto it, feeling the blankets envelope him. Alexei draped his forearm over his eyes, sighing again.

Everything that had happened that day finally caught up with Alexei, and he felt every muscle in his body, even down to his bones, ache and tense. Wincing and gritting his teeth, Alexei mindlessly grabbed the pendant around his neck, rubbing one of the quarter-sized pendants with his thumb. It didn't do anything for the stabbing pains that were running up and down his body, but it did help calm his nerves.

Sitting up slowly with a groan, Alexei looked at the television and thought about powering it on, perhaps catching either a local game or maybe just the evening news. He reached over, wincing at the throbbing pain in his shoulder, and grabbed the television remote from the bedside table. Powering the television on, Alexei flipped through the channels until a show came on that he recognized. It was a primarily a comedy show, and after today, Alexei could use a good laugh.

Standing up and flinching as his knees cracked, Alexei pulled his shirt off and headed to the small bathroom in the hotel room. The white tiles and white walls almost blinded him as the light reflected off them, and Alexei staggered slightly, muttering a curse.

_"My eyes,"_ he moaned. _"I make it through a guarded military base only to be taken down by a hotel bathroom. ...oh how the mighty have fallen."_

Alexei looked up at himself in the mirror, his eyes lingering over each scar that marred his skin. The worst were the bullet marks. Alexei hated those. They looked like crudely drawn stars that had been etched into him, and none of them really carried fond memories. Turning around, Alexei went over and turned the hot water on for the shower. The water was, of course, initially cold, and Alexei continued undressing as the water warmed up. Though he didn't look, he knew the thick, dark scars across his back were still there. It had taken months for the injuries to heal, and they'd torn open every chance they'd gotten.

...but those injuries. Those scars. They had been worth it. They had been a price that Alexei had paid willingly.

()

Sighing, Angela leaned against the railing, her eyes watering as a breeze of frigid air rushed across her face. She'd managed to find some solitude in a currently unoccupied watch tower. It had been replaced by a more modern model that was only a few meters away, but this one still stood, for now.

Angela set her forehead down on the railing, ignoring the bite of cold metal. Her left eye still pulsed hotly, and now her stomach was sore from all the rather vicious punches Yezhov had managed to land. She had since had the chance to change into a pair of dark blue fatigue pants and a black, long-sleeved shirt. She also had a dark grey jacket on, but it was providing only minimal protection from the cold.

"You all right?"

Angela jerked her head up and looked over. Soap was standing in the doorway of the small office for the watch tower. He was clad in snow camo fatigue pants, a grey shirt, and a black leather jacket.

"Getting old sucks," Angela grumbled.

"Oh bloody hell, luv," Soap groaned, smirking. "Don't even start. You're fine. Sinclair just had to give you the 'what-fer' so that you can get your focus back."

When Soap attempted to mimic Sinclair's Southern drawl, Angela burst into a fit of giggles. She couldn't help it. Her left eye throbbed, but she didn't care. Soap smiled and motioned to the inside of the office.

"Come here," he beckoned. "Figured you could use a bit of cheering up."

Still giggling, Angela followed Soap back into the office. It was still quite cold, but the windows were still intact and the breeze wasn't too terribly cold.

There was a small, dusty desk in the middle of the office, and on the table was a case of six beers. Angela smiled and shook her head, looking over at Soap. He grinned and opened one of the beers and handed it over to Angela, who gratefully accepted it. Soap opened another and lifted it up slightly.

"Here's to better focus and learning from the 'what-fer,'" Soap declared.

Angela giggled again and tapped the neck of her beer bottle against the one that Soap had in his hand before taking a long drink. She wasn't much for alcohol, but there were times that it really helped.

"Now then," Soap warned with a smile after taking a drink, "if Sinclair asks about this, you deny everything, aye?"

"Aye," Angela agreed. "Will do."

Chuckling, Soap raised an eyebrow at Angela's attempt to mimic a Scottish accent, but said nothing. He took a drink of the beer before nodding at Angela slightly.

"How's your eye?"

"Better, thank you," Angela said, gingerly touching the bruise ringing her left eye. "Thanks for patching me up, too."

"Don't mention it," Soap replied, taking another drink. "Sounds like you were able to use that laptop again as a lethal weapon."

"Yeah," Angela giggled. "Yezhov tried to take my toy. And I wanted it back."

"Don't like to share, huh?" Soap winked at Angela.

"Nope," Angela answered smartly, taking another drink. "I'm a selfish little girl."

Soap laughed and the two finished off their drinks. About midway through their second beer, Angela blinked and rubbed her nose slightly.

"You all right there, girlie?" Soap asked, grinning knowingly.

"I forgot that you guys don't mess around when it comes to beer," Angela laughed, sitting down on the desk, swaying slightly.

"Looks like we've got a lightweight on our hands, mates!" Soap cried, laughing and walking over to Angela. He seemed perfectly fine, though that fact didn't surprise Angela in the least.

"I'm not a lightweight," Angela protested, smiling and lightly punching Soap in the chest. "I just don't drink very often."

"Aye, and that would make you a lightweight," Soap chuckled, waving a hand in front of Angela's face.

"Stop it!" Angela giggled, trying to catch Soap's hand but failing. "You're making me dizzy!"

"But you're not a lightweight, huh?" Soap asked smugly.

"You're being mean," Angela laughed, grabbing Soap's hand.

"I'm being mean, am I?" Soap set his almost empty beer on the table and stepped back, crossing his arms. "You trying to get Round Two going, girlie?"

"Maybe," Angela giggled, sliding off the table and punching at Soap again lightly.

"I seem to recall that didn't go so well for you," Soap warned with a grin.

"Maybe I was just taking it easy on you," Angela said mischievously.

Angela took another step towards Soap, still lightly throwing punches. Soap shook his head and then suddenly grabbed Angela's wrists and gently but firmly pinned her arms to her side. Angela squeaked and laughed, resisting slightly.

"Taking it easy on me, were you?" Soap asked, leaning forward.

There was a moment of pause and once again the two realized how close they were to each other. Soap slowly released Angela's wrists, and her hand traced up his forearm of his jacket. Her other hand set on his chest, her nails lightly digging against Soap's grey shirt.

"Deja vu, huh?" Soap inquired in a hushed tone.

"Yeah," Angela whispered.

Soap slowly reached up, combing back Angela's blonde hair. It had been swept into disarray by the wind, and Soap tried to smooth it back as carefully as possible. Angela smiled and leaned against Soap, sighing. Her hand moved from the arm of his jacket and slid underneath the jacket and up Soap's back lightly. Soap wrapped an arm around Angela's waist and smiled faintly.

"I don't think Ghost followed me this time," Soap murmured.

"I don't know," Angela answered softly with a giggle. "He did offer candles and wine."

"Bloody hell, you're right," Soap chuckled. "Sneaky little bastard's never around when you need him." Soap let his hand drift from Angela's hair to gently hooking underneath her chin, pulling her gaze up to his. "Although, I think we could do without the interruption this time, aye?"

"Yeah," Angela whispered, smiling. She looked up at Soap. His eyes caught the dim light in a way that his eyes almost seemed to glow faintly. Angela's hand drifted from Soap's chest to his face, her hand caressing Soap's face.

Smiling, Soap gently pulled Angela's face closer to his. Her nose grazed against his lightly, and Soap could hear Angela's breath fluttering nervously. It sounded almost as nervous as Soap felt, but he managed a reassuring grin and leaned in towards Angela slowly.

Soap kissed Angela gently, feeling her hand clutch at his back. He placed his hand on the back of Angela's neck, kissing her a little deeper. Angela made a soft noise, leaning against Soap, her hand stroking down the back of his neck. She was almost standing on tip-toe, her grip on Soap's shirt tightening as she kept her balance. Soap held Angela close, keeping her from swaying, a soft growl escaping his throat.

Angela leaned back a little, her breath still fluttering. Her dark blue eyes opened partially, her cheeks flushed pink.

"John...?" she whispered.

"Aye?"

There was no response other than Angela drawing Soap close for another kiss, and he obliged without hesitation. Angela seemed to relax, though Soap still had to hold her steady as she stepped up onto her tip-toes.

Taking advantage of the moment, Soap then kissed Angela's cheek and then the side of her neck. He grinned faintly as Angela's nails dug into his back and he heard her breath catch in her throat.

"John," Angela said quietly, her tone that of mock suspicion, "what are you doing...?"

"Nothing," Soap whispered as innocently as he could muster.

A short laugh escaped Angela's throat and the had she had on the back of Soap's neck slid under his chin, cupping his face gently and pulling his gaze to her's. For a split second, Soap felt his heart stop.

The moonlight caught Angela's platinum blonde hair, causing it to almost look like there was a halo of gold light around her head. Her eyes were almost completely masked by shadows, save for a white reflection of light that flickered as Angela studied Soap's face. She smiled, her pale skin looking almost white in the moonlight.

"Angela?"

"Yes?"

Soap pulled Angela close for a final kiss, bringing her appearance back to reality and breaking the hauntingly angelic illusion.


	19. Chapter 19

()

The base was relatively quiet as morning broke, with most of the soldiers going about their normal duties. There was a the dull roar of a forklift as it moved pallets of supplies around the base. Most of Task Force 141 and the Delta Team Steel were in the mess hall, eating a hot breakfast of eggs, sausage, oatmeal, and biscuits. Roach and Riley were having an enthusiastic argument over which was better, waffles or pancakes, and Ghost, Church, and Alvarez were taking bets on how cold the next location they were shipped off to would be. Wilson and Scarecrow were talking about their previous missions, and Sinclair and Soap were chatting about the current state of the mission. Angela was quiet, sitting at the end of the table, seemingly lost in thought as she munched on a bite of biscuit and gravy.

Riley elbowed Roach and pointed at Angela before picking up a small piece of egg and flicking it at Angela. It landed square in the cup of orange juice Angela had, causing a splash of orange juice to fly out of the cup. Angela stifled a squeak and jumped, then glared at Riley. Both Riley and Roach were muffling their laughter, and Angela fished the piece of scrambled egg out of her orange juice with a rather grumpy look on her face.

"All I'm saying is that the next place we get shipped off to is probably going to be colder than my mother-in-law's heart," Church grumbled, stabbing at the scrambled eggs on his plate.

"I take it you two don't get along well then, huh mate?" Ghost inquired, taking a drink of coffee.

"I'd have better luck flying a 747 with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back," Church replied, his eyes narrow.

"Awww, you know you wuv her, _hermano_," Alvarez crooned, prodding Church lightly with the handle of his fork. "Want me to call her for you? It's probably two in the morning or something over there. That'll really put her in a good mood!"

"I will make it so that you suffer a horribly disfiguring injury that renders you incapable of having children," Church threatened.

"Shit, man," Alvarez grumbled, scooting away from Church. "Who pissed in your Post Toasties this morning?"

"I believe the term for this area is, 'bugger off,'" Church answered.

"That it is," Ghost confirmed, "but you have to say it sounding a bit more...uppity. Like the guy just insulted your mum and her whole family."

"Got it," Church said, coughing and clearing his throat. He then attempted to mimic a British accent as best he could. "Bugger off, Alvarez!"

"Not bad, mate," Ghost said, patting Church on the back. "Save for the fact you sound like you're from about four different locations...Scotland included on that list."

Alvarez burst into laughter, almost choking on the mouthful of food he had. Church shook his head and rolled his eyes, chuckling.

"And that, Ghost," he replied, a Texan drawl coating his voice, "is why I'm an American from good 'ole Texas!"

Laughing, Ghost shook his head. He looked over at Soap, who was watching Angela. Ghost smirked faintly and tossed a small piece of wadded up napkin at Soap. Soap didn't flinch, but slowly looked over at Ghost, with an expression that was a mixture between annoyance and bemusement. Ghost raised an eyebrow and slightly jerked his head in Angela's direction. Soap just shook his head and went back to focusing on his breakfast.

"Hey, Angie!" Alvarez called, holding his hands up slightly. "What? You too good to sit with the rest of us?"

"You boys have cooties," Angela joked, making a face.

"Well, you know that the only way to avoid getting sick from cooties is exposure to them," Alvarez countered.

"And I am getting exposure," Angela reasoned, finishing off her glass of orange juice. "From a safe distance."

Ghost was walking by to take his tray back to the kitchen to be washed when Angela answered, and he quickly shuffled over to Soap and leaned forward.

"I can think of somebody that wouldn't mind helping with that exposure to cooties, huh, mate?" he whispered.

"I believe the proper term is, 'bugger off, you wanker,'" Soap grumbled with a smirk.

Ghost just laughed and shook his head before continuing over to the kitchen. Angela looked up at Soap, looking mildly concerned. Soap just shook his head slightly, still smirking. It was then he realized that Sinclair was giving him a pointed look.

"Somethin' ya' wanna' tell me?" Sinclair chuckled.

"Nothing to tell," Soap replied casually.

"Got news for ya', sport," Sinclair stated. "Ya' may be a tough cookie to read, but I've got Angela pretty figured out, she-"

"Don't count on it, sir," Angela suddenly interrupted, looking up from her almost empty plate. She smiled faintly. "I'm working on my focus."

"Aw shit," Sinclair grumbled, finishing off his cup of coffee. "I shoulda' known better than to open my damn mouth."

"What's wrong?" Roach inquired, having won the argument and proven that waffles were a better breakfast staple.

"Nothin'," Sinclair replied, leaning back in his chair. "Other than I get the feelin' Angie's gonna' start makin' things difficult fer' me."

Roach and Soap gave Angela semi-serious looks of concern, but the Delta Team was chuckling quietly. Angela smiled as devilishly as she could before calmly and primly setting her eating utensils, crumpled napkin, orange juice cup, and the orange-juice soaked piece of egg that she had fished out of the cup, on her plate.

"Dah dun, dah dun," Chruch said quietly, mimicking the "JAWS" theme song.

Angela's prim expression quickly evaporated and she gave Church an exasperated glare.

"I'm not that bad," she snipped, sticking her tongue out.

In response, Church picked up a piece of biscuit and threw it at Angela. Angela's hand snapped out and clamped on the biscuit piece, crushing it to crumbs. Church raised an eyebrow, then grinned knowingly. He looked over at Soap, his grin only getting wider.

"You want to go toe-to-toe with her again?"

Riley and Alvarez gave Soap wide-eyed looks, shaking their heads slowly and emphatically. Soap kept his mouth shut for two reasons. One, he could only imagine the fight he'd have on his hands now that Angela knew what to expect. Two, his thoughts jumped to other images and ideas other than sparring at Church's question.

Clearing his throat slightly, Soap shook his head.

"I think I'll pass, mate," he replied finally. "There's two little wide-eyed Delta soldiers telling me it'd be a bad idea."

"Aw, come on, wouldn't be so bad," Church coaxed.

"You think so?" Angela asked, having started to walk to the kitchen of the mess hall. She stopped when she was standing behind Church and grinned. "Well then, in that case, why don't you show them why it wouldn't be so bad? I need the practice, anyways."

Church fell silent, panic momentarily flashing across his face. The rest of the Delta team, save for Wilson, stifled their laughter. His eyes narrowed and Church suddenly smiled widely.

"You're on," he replied.

"Don't kill the doc, Angie," Sinclair commented. "We need him alive an' in one piece."

"I won't kill him," Angela crooned, patting Church on the head. "He'll just...limp for a bit."

"Yippee," Church said flatly.

"Hey, boss," Alvarez interrupted. "What's the word on those Russians? We blew up their base, yeah? So now what?"

"Well, near as I can figure is that we're gonna' be goin' after another one of their bases," Sinclair replied. "Haven't gotten the official message yet, but it's lookin' like they've got about two more bases we're gonna' have to go after."

"And that's it?" Alvarez asked, sounding irritated. "Thought we were going to be hunting those four creepos down."

"We are, but the official orders ain't come in yet," Sinclair answered, rolling his eyes. "Ya' know the drill, we can't do anythin' until they give the go."

"What? Our hospitality not good enough for you?" Roach asked Alvarez, his tone that of mock insult.

Alvarez muttered something inaudible, looking away.

"Speak up, mate," Soap said loudly. "C'mon, out with it."

"We'll only throw you in the nearest loch if you don't speak up," Scarecrow added.

"It's cold and you people drive on the wrong side of the road," Alvarez grumbled, crossing his arms. "And we're on a freaking island, man. Water...all around."

Roach, Scarecrow, and Soap exchanged glances before looking back at Alvarez. Sinclair sighed and hid his face with his palm while Wilson and Church just laughed. Riley rolled his eyes and gave Alvarez a pointed look.

"You know, at least these guys drive on one side of the road or the other," Riley commented, smirking. "I remember seeing how your family from Mexico drove. Roller coasters have a straighter path of travel."

"Hey, shut up," Alvarez protested. "There was nothing wrong with their driving."

"Yeah, if they were trying to run down a scared rabbit," Riley replied. "And what's with this water phobia, you big sissy? Remind me to never take you to a water park. You'd be the biggest kill-joy there."

"I was born in a desert, I lived in a desert, I would like to stay near a desert," Alvarez answered.

"But yer' okay with goin' to Russia?" Sinclair asked in disbelief.

"...you guys suck," Alvarez grumbled, scooting down in his chair and glaring across the table at the wall.

"Aw, poor baby's pouting," Riley snickered.

"It can't be that bad," Roach said. "And it's not that cold. This is actually fairly warm weather."

Alvarez's horrified expression only made Riley laugh harder. Finally, Alvarez smirked and shook his head.

"I know, man," he replied. "But if I'm not bein' a pain in the ass, I'm not being me. Seriously, though, it seems like we're giving these guys way too much time to regroup. I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly cool with the idea of charging into another bulletstorm like we had before."

"First up, that was an unfortunate screw up that got that blasted bulletstorm goin'," Sinclair countered. "Second up, ya' know that Shepard ain't gonna' have us go chargin' in blindly."

"Ayiyi," Alvarez grumbled. "That old man isn't going to be 'charging' anywhere, _hefe_."

Soap chuckled slightly and looked over at Sinclair, who was looking at the empty coffee cup forlornly.

"Any chance I can get this filled with whiskey?" Sinclair asked Soap hopefully, holding up the coffee cup.

"Just got to ask the right people, mate," Soap replied with a grin.

()

Somewhere in the middle of her third run through the obstacle course, cold rain had started to pelt down from the grey skies, causing Angela's skin to begin to go numb and cover with light blotches of pale blue. If Angela felt the cold, however, she did not show it. She continued to sprint at her break-neck pace through the obstacle course, vaulting over one of the boxes and climbing on top of it. The bottoms of her shoes squeaked as they struggled to gain traction against the slick top of the box.

Lunging off the box and landing into a forming puddle, Angela breathed out deeply and then inhaled sharply, feeling a sharp sting as the cold air filled her lungs.

_-Pain is only momentary. It fades. Failure never fades!-_

Sliding across the slippery mud and underneath the coils of razor wire, Angela began to seal crawl her way under the razor sharp hallway as quickly as she could. She could feel her shirt tug on her back as the razor wire began to cut down, but it didn't matter.

_-No physical scar will ever compare to the scar that failing your family can cause!-_

Panting and trying to catch her breath, wincing as she felt the rocks underneath the razor wire dig into her chest and stomach. Her hands were almost completely numb by this point, and her throat was raw, but all Angela could focus on was the familiar, almost thundering voice that was echoing in her head.

_-Do not give up! Do not falter! Do not relent!-_

Exiting the razor hallways, Angela then sprinted to the rope ladder that was draped across a wooden frame. She managed to climb her way up the ladder, but when she reached the top, Angela's footing slipped and she began to tumble down the other side of the rope ladder. With a short shriek, Angela hooked her arm into one of the rough rungs, grunting as she felt her shoulder pop angrily in protest.

_-Weakling...-_

Hissing in anger, Angela began to scramble down the ladder as quickly as she could muster, feeling a raw, hot sensation of pain start to spread across her left shoulder. The crook of her arm was on fire, but Angela couldn't care less. She made a mad dash towards the end of the obstacle course, forcing herself to run, somehow, even faster.

When she crossed the finish line, Angela doubled over, heaving and retching, her stomach revolting under the stress she had put it through. She coughed and retched again, but Angela forced her breakfast to stay down. She couldn't afford to lose the nutrition.

_-Those are the results that an Archangel will provide...-_

Standing up, wincing as she realized her shoulder was possibly more injured than she had though, Angela turned back to the barracks, then looked at the starting point of the obstacle course.

"Can't advise that, luv."

Turning around quickly, Angela saw Soap standing beside the small set of bleachers that ran parallel with the obstacle course. He was in the same leather jacket, but had a knit beanie pulled over his head to try and block the pouring rain. Angela looked at Soap in exhaustion, her knees threatening to give out.

Frowning, Soap walked towards Angela, pulling off his jacket.

"You don't have to-"

"Oi...hold still," Soap ordered, helping Angela into the jacket. "You're not wearing anything but a shirt and fatigues. You trying to catch pneumonia?"

"Just...practicing," Angela responded.

"Practicing getting pneumonia? You're doing a good job, then," Soap commented.

Shivering as she felt warmth start to slowly work its way around Angela's body.

"No. My focus," Angela answered.

"Come on," Soap said, tugging on the sleeve of the jacket, guiding Angela towards the barracks. "Let's get out of this pissing rain already."

The rain only seemed to pelt harder by the time the two had reached the barracks, and Angela made her way to her semi-private room in the back. Soap followed, watching her closely. Angela's gait had a slight limp to it, and she seemed a little unsteady on her feet.

Sighing, Angela sat down on the cot, looking down at the floor as rain water dripped from her hair. Soap crouched down in front of her, peering up at her through the thick, blonde mess of sopping wet hair.

"You all right, there?"

"...my shoulder hurts," Angela replied glumly. "I thought I could do at least four or five runs through that course."

"'Four or five'?" Soap asked incredulously. "Come on, girlie, that's stupid and you bloody well know it. Especially in this weather."

"I could have five years ago," Angela snapped back. She paused when she realized how acid her tone had been, then hung her head. "Sorry."

"You know that running yourself into the ground isn't going to fix things, aye?" Soap queried, trying to comb back the blonde mess that was Angela's hair.

"I know," Angela sighed. "I just...I used to be able to do so much more than what I can now."

"Well, you're working on fixing that," Soap pointed out. "Have to give you credit where it's due, you're one of the most tenacious little CIA agents I've ever met."

"Thanks," Angela said, smiling faintly.

"That and you're the best looking," Soap whispered quietly, sneaking a quick kiss to Angela's forehead.

Blushing, Angela smiled up at Soap as he stood up, carefully pulling the jacket off Angela. He glanced at her back, her white shirt blotched with pink from where the razor wire had bit into her skin. Soap lightly pulled the shirt away from Angela's back. Angela whimpered and winced slightly, but sat still.

"Is it bad?" Angela asked.

"Doesn't look too bad," Soap commented. "Looks like you just got scratched up a bit."

"Sorry I got your jacket all bloody and wet," Angela muttered.

"Bah, don't worry about it," Soap chuckled, setting the jacket at the end of the cot. "Not that bad, anyways."

Sitting down beside Angela, Soap inspected the cuts on her back a little closer. None were too deep, but he could already see bruises starting to form on her left shoulder. Gingerly touching the bruise, Soap frowned.

"Take a tumble, girlie?"

"Yeah. Almost fell down the rope ladder," Angela replied with a laugh. She looked at the crook of her left arm, which was scorched with a rope burn.

"I think you're supposed to climb down the ladder," Soap chuckled.

Sighing heavily, Angela leaned against Soap, nuzzling her face softly against the side of his neck. Soap wrapped an arm around her, mindful of her back, slowly rubbing her right arm to try and warm her up. Smiling, Angela lightly kissed the side of Soap's neck, the kisses trailing along his jawline. A short, quiet growl escaped Soap's throat and he pulled Angela a little closer. She reached up and clutched at the collar of his shirt, her kisses then going across his cheek until Angela was looking directly at Soap. She paused for a minute, and Soap smiled faintly at her.

"Hi," Angela whispered.

"Hey," Soap answered quietly, gently caressing Angela's face.

()

Snapping awake, Alexei snatched up the pistol he had set on the bedside table, concealed under his shirt. He quickly aimed around the room before remembering where he was. Sighing and shaking his head, Alexei combed back his jet black hair and set the pistol back down on the bedside table. The television was droning on about some sort of mail order smoothie maker that Alexei was fairly certain was overpriced.

Laying back on the bed, Alexei shivered slightly at the cold sweat that had formed on his forehead. It had been the same nightmare of the fire. That damn fire.

Alexei wasn't necessarily phobic of fire, but he couldn't shake the memories of the inferno that had erased his "home" in Montana back in the United States. It hadn't just been an inferno, it had been a blazing hellfire that seemed to be ripped straight from the pages of a biblical sermon. It had torn through buildings, vehicles, and, most hauntingly, people with terrifying speed and efficiency.

The only reason Alexei had managed to escape was because he had been dragged through the blazing nightmare. He had only been half-conscious, not enough to escape the fires on his own. And far too injured and weak to make it to the front gates.

But he hadn't been alone. Throughout the entire nightmare, Alexei hadn't faced it alone.

Grumbling and rolling over onto his stomach, Alexei weakly punched the pillow to beside him. While it didn't do anything to help him get back to sleep, it did help ease some of his frustrations.

Hearing the television suddenly change to another program, Alexei looked over his shoulder, mildly interested. Now there was an impossibly chipper looking woman trying to sell an over-sized housecoat.

_"Right,"_ Alexei grumbled. _"We all want to look like a pink version of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man..."_

()


	20. Chapter 20

()

Walking down the hallway slowly but confidently, Pirogov slowly turned a pen over in his hand. His expression was absolute deadpan, and he actually appeared somewhat calm. Given the fact that in the past forty-eight hours Pirogov had learned that one of their bases that had been almost completely constructed had been blasted to splinters, there were dozens dead, and Yezhov herself was now in the hospital getting injuries tended to.

The hospital was small but efficient, and Pirogov recognized Sabitov from a little ways down the hallway. Sabitov was standing outside a hospital room that the door was cracked open slightly. From inside the room, Pirogov could hear a doctor muttering something as he worked. Sabitov looked up and saw Pirogov and quickly saluted. Pirogov nodded and Sabitov relaxed, then peeked inside the hospital room before looking back to Pirogov.

_"How is she?"_ Pirogov asked, still slowly turning the pen over in his hand.

_"Battered and bruised, but nothing life threatening,"_ Sabitov answered, shrugging slightly. _"The worst is that her nose was almost broken and her jaw was dislocated. Whoever hit her hit her hard."_

_"How was she ambushed and beaten so badly?"_ Pirogov asked slowly.

Hesitating slightly at the sound of venom starting to seep into Pirogov's voice, Sabitov cleared his throat nervously and glanced inside the room once again. It was mostly so he didn't have to make eye contact with Pirogov. While Sabitov was known for being dangerous for his hair trigger temper that would make him go from complacent to murderously infuriated in less than a second, the rumor was that nobody had ever seen Pirogov lose his temper.

Sabitov was one of the few unlucky enough to know that rumor was not true.

_"Yezhov didn't say much when she was brought in, according to the doctors,"_ Sabitov replied. _"And in all honesty, I only got here about fifteen minutes before you did. The engine froze on the truck I used to get here halfway over here."_

_"I'm assuming you didn't walk the rest of the way,"_ Pirogov chuckled dourly.

_"Not hardly. I called for another truck."_

_"Smart man."_ For a few moments, Pirogov appeared deep in thought. Then he glanced up at the cracked open hospital door. _"One base destroyed, dozens of men dead, and a beaten up Yezhov. I believe this is a traditional Monday..."_

Sabitov chuckled nervously, but said nothing else for the time being. He had been infuriated at the loss of life and the base, but Pirogov was handling this with his same, seemingly endless calm and patience. Sabitov didn't know how Pirogov did it. The loss of the base had set the entire operation back by months. Sabitov started to say something in response, but was interrupted by a dull cracking noise and Yezhov's screech of pain.

_"I'm guessing they just popped something back into place,"_ Pirogov murmured.

_"Let's hope so,"_ Sabitov agreed. _"Otherwise we may need to reconsider what hospitals we use."_

Out of nowhere Pirogov burst into a fit of laughter. It was so uncharacteristic of him that Sabitov actually jumped slightly, taken aback by the sound. Fortunately Pirogov did not notice and continued to laugh loudly while Sabitov stood there with a puzzled look on his face and a weak grin.

After a few minutes, Pirogov regained his composure and coughed slightly before grinning at Sabitov.

_"I needed the laugh,"_ Pirogov explained with a short chuckle.

Nodding and grinning a bit wider, Sabitov stayed quiet. A small part of him had thought that Pirogov had finally gone completely cuckoo.

_"There's something else,"_ Sabitov finally said. Pirogov looked at him, his deadpan expression having returned. _"There was a report from one of the soldiers who survived that there was somebody else on the base when it was attacked."_

_"Somebody other than the enemy soldiers?"_

_"Yes. From the description is sounds like it was a mercenary,"_ Sabitov said quietly. _"An extremely well trained mercenary, but a mercenary nonetheless."_

_"And what was a mercenary doing on base?"_

_ "You didn't know? Two families had wandered too close and were taken hostage."_

_ "What?"_ Pirogov asked crisply. The volume of his voice never rose, but he question was curt and sharp. _"Why were they taken hostage?"_

_"According to the soldiers, it was either take them hostage or kill them. Supposedly they had seen too much."_ While he was not happy in the least that they had taken hostages, Sabitov also tried to see it from the bigger picture. Security risks could not be tolerated at this point, no matter how unfortunate they were.

_"I see...,"_ Pirogov answered slowly. _"So now we are taking our fellow man hostage when they're the very one we're trying to keep free?"_

Sabitov had already started to answer Pirogov, but as the dark haired man finished his sentence, Sabitov snapped his mouth shut so hard his teeth felt a twinge of pain.

_"Was it Yezhov that gave the order to take them hostage?"_ Pirogov continued. His voice had a slight tremor in it now, much like a tea kettle that was reaching its boiling point. _"Or was it you?"_

_"You know as well as I do that we cannot afford any security risks at this point,"_ Sabitov hissed, indignant anger starting to give him courage. No matter how deadly Pirogov may have been, Sabitov was in charge, and he would be damned if he let anybody interrogate him. _"It was a tragic circumstance that those people discovered the base, but it happened and it had to be dealt with."_

_ "Butchery of a few farmers is more than just tragic, Sabitov,"_ Pirogov snapped back lowly, his voice creaking with the first few slivers of stress.

_"What's with this sudden sentimental shit?"_ Sabitov snarled. _"You would be the first one to dissect anybody that stood in our way, and don't think I don't know what you have planned for that American woman if, God help her, you manage to get your filthy hands on her. But now you're whimpering and mewling like an infant at the idea of having to shed a little more blood."_

There was a stretch of silence as the two men exchanged narrowed stares. While there was no doubt that Sabitov feared Pirogov far more than Pirogov feared Sabitov, ultimately it was Sabitov that held the reins of the entire operation. And he could make Pirogov disappear if he so chose to. That is, so long as Pirogov didn't get to him first.

The stand-off was interrupted when the doctor came out of the room, adjust his glasses slightly. When he looked up and saw the two men scowling at each other, he froze, clutching his clipboard tightly. Both Sabitov and Pirogov turned and looked at the doctor, each forcing a smile. The doctor paled and stared at the two with a mute, horrified gaze before snapping out of their stupor.

_"She should be fine,"_ the doctor said slowly. _"Though I will admit I have not seen such fierce damage in a while. I guess only a woman knows how to be truly vicious, huh?"_ The doctor forced a nervous laugh.

Sabitov and Pirogov exchanged a quick, slightly puzzled glance before looking back to the doctor.

_"I beg your pardon?"_ Sabitov asked slowly.

_"It was some damn bitch that did this to me!"_ Yezhov suddenly shrieked from her hospital room.

The doctor almost jumped out of his shoes, but neither Sabitov or Pirogov batted an eye. By this point, both of the men were used to Yezhov's outbursts and tantrums. Pirogov made a move to go into the room, but Sabitov's arm shot out, stopping the taller man. Pirogov favored Sabitov with a furious glare, which Sabitov ignored before walking into the hospital room. Hissing a curse under his breath, Pirogov followed Sabitov, both hands clenched into fists.

Yezhov was already standing up, pulling her jacket on as gingerly as she could. Her left arm was tightly bandaged and was proving awkward to try and maneuver into the sleeve of her jacket. Sabitov watched her with disdain, but Pirogov had a slightly odd expression that he was working on masking.

_"You were beat up by a woman?"_ Sabitov sneered.

_"Shall I give you a demonstration on what she did?"_ Yezhov snapped back, wincing as she finally slid her left arm into her jacket sleeve.

_"No, I don't want you to hurt yourself any further,"_ Sabitov hissed derogatorily.

Fury taking over her common sense, Yezhov took a step towards Sabitov challengingly, but Pirogov set a hand firmly on her shoulder. Yezhov started slightly and looked up at Pirogov, who gave her a steady stare and slightly shook his head. Sabitov simply chuckled shortly.

_"At least two of us in this room have some common sense,"_ Sabitov commented, smirking at Yezhov.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Yezhov glared at Sabitov, but said nothing. She glanced up questioningly at Pirogov, who had kept a deadpan expression throughout Sabitov's barbs. Pirogov again said nothing, but gave Yezhov an expression that was a mix of chiding and, oddly enough, pity. Fortunately, Sabitov missed the expression and turned to the doctor, who was hovering outside the doorway.

_"We're leaving shortly,"_ Sabitov said sternly to the doctor. _"If she had any possessions with her, gather them and have them at the front desk."_ Sabitov looked over at Pirogov and Yezhov. _"Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. We're meeting up with Bortsov to see how much we can recover from the lost base and this unfortunate failure."_

With that, Sabitov briskly walked out of the hospital room and down the hallway, his boots tapping on the glossy linoleum floor. After a few minutes, Yezhov realized that Pirogov's hand was still on her shoulder. Frowning in confusion, she lightly set her hand on Pirogov's. The dark-haired man blinked slightly and looked down at Yezhov, his blue eyes narrowing.

_"You should be far more careful with who you challenge,"_ Pirogov warned, his voice low.

_"Why do you care?"_ Yezhov asked angrily, though more humiliated than angry at this point.

_"Sabitov is not as patient as I am."_

_ "Are you saying I should be grateful for the fact that you keep pawing at me?"_ Yezhov hissed.

Pirogov removed his hand from Yezhov's shoulder slowly, watching her closely.

_"While I hardly think I'm 'pawing' at you...do you want me to stop?"_ Pirogov asked the question slowly, letting the words sink in.

Yezhov pursed her lips and started to snap back with a retort, but considered the question for a few minutes. If Pirogov insisted on pursuing her, would it be so bad to have him on her side? Especially if Sabitov was already angry with her...

Taking a slow breath, Yezhov forced a faint smile at Pirogov.

_"No, I suppose not."_

_ "No?"_ Pirogov asked, sounding faintly surprised. _"And what's with the sudden change of heart?"_

_ "My better judgment spoke up."_

_ "Yezhov, my dear, you really do need to remember who you are talking to,"_ Pirogov purred, hooking a finger under Yezhov's chin, mindful of her injured jaw. _"Of all the men on this world, I am one of the last ones you would want to try and lie to. If you are going to be fond of me, at least do so honestly."_

_"Well, if it's honesty we're going for,"_ Yezhov started slowly. _"Do I really get a choice in how fond of you I am? You have a reputation that precedes you quite a bit, Pirogov. I am not looking to make my daughter an orphan."_

_ "Oh...come now,"_ Pirogov said, snorting slightly. _"Do you honestly think I would kill you?"_

_ "If I made you mad enough, yes."_

_ "You would have to truly try to get on my last nerve,"_ Pirogov replied with a rare chuckle.

_"But then that begs the question, how frayed is that last nerve?"_ Yezhov inquired, taking a cautious step towards Pirogov, lightly tapping on his chest.

Pirogov made a muffled grunt when Yezhov tapped on his chest, but stayed still. He grasped Yezhov's hand slowly, feeling her tense, but only slightly.

_"For you...? I could probably hold on to that last nerve for quite a bit,"_ Pirogov murmured.

This time, Yezhov looked truly curious, and she stood up on her tip-toes, looking at Pirogov a little closer.

_"What are you expecting of me, Pirogov?"_ she whispered. _"Truly?"_

_ "Truly?"_ Pirogov stepped close to Yezhov, lightly tracing the outline of one of the bandages across her cheek. _"Show me even half the patience that I have shown you...and we will let it go from there."_


	21. Chapter 21

While the rain had stopped pouring down, there were still large puddles of rainwater that littered the base. Small flocks of birds splashed around in and drank from them as the grey clouds above began to dissipate slowly. The air was thick and starting to chill, but a low hanging curtain of fog clung to the ground.

Back in the main base, in the communications room, Soap, Ghost, and Sinclair were reviewing some of the latest intel that they had been sent. Their attack on the base, while a little nerve-wracking at points, had been a success, and they were already getting the coordinates and orders for the next step.

Ghost was looking over Pirogov's dossier, his eyes flicking over the words quickly. Soap and Sinclair were studying the layout of a small town that was flanked by a rather jagged set of mountains.

"So how'd Angie fare on that course this go through?" Sinclair asked, keeping his gaze on the maps.

While he said nothing, Ghost's gaze glanced over to Sinclair before returning to Pirogov's dossier.

"Almost ran herself into the ground," Soap replied. "She ran through it multiple times and it sounded like she was about to suffocate."

"Yeah...sounds 'bout right. She's a stubborn bitch at times," Sinclair laughed, his gaze still on the maps. He paused for a few minutes before continuing, and this time he looked up at Soap. "Also saw ya' walk her back to her room. That was nice of ya'."

Again, Ghost's gaze snapped back to Sinclair. This time it stayed and watched the Delta commander.

Soap hesitated briefly. While what he and Angela were doing wasn't necessarily violating any rules, romances weren't exactly smiled upon, either. It caused too many risks...

"Aye, so I did," Soap answered, looking up at Sinclair. Sinclair didn't seem upset, but he had an odd sort of apprehension about him. "Was I just supposed to leave her out there in the rain?"

"No, never said ya' should've," Sinclair replied, shaking his head. "I already know she's been eyein' ya' fer a while, and am I to assume that the feelins' mutual?"

There was a short stretch of tense silence, but Soap nodded his head slightly in affirmation. Ghost watched Sinclair closely, curious as to what the response would be. Sinclair studied Soap for a few minutes with a deadpan expression before chuckling and shaking his head.

"Yer' crazier than I thought," he said, still grinning.

Soap ventured a cautious smile, somewhat relieved that the Delta commander hadn't been angry over the affirmation. While Soap could handle himself just fine, the last thing he wanted to do was get Angela into any sort of trouble.

"Never said I was exactly a model of sanity, mate," Soap reminded.

"Yeah, ya' never did, huh?" Sinclair answered. He then looked at Soap with a steady gaze. "Ya' best take care of our little songbird, though. 'Cuz if ya' hurt her, I know at least five pretty mean sonsuvbitches that'll be gunnin' fer ya'." Sinclair ended his statement with a quick wink.

"I've got no intention of hurting her," Soap answered, a hint of steel in his tone of voice. "She's one of the few women I know that'd actually understand the whole statement of, 'I can't tell you where I am or what I'm doing or when I'll be back, but I thought I'd call and see how you were doing.'"

Sinclair chuckled and nodded his head.

"Ya' got that right," he commented. "My girl still gets flustered from time to time and she's had to put up wit' me fer'...four years now."

"Aw, now that's sweet, mate," Ghost commented, grinning.

"Yeah, ya' think it's sweet until she's callin' me at three in the mornin' 'cuz she forgot I'm on the other side of the damn world."

"But at least you know she's thinking about you," Ghost crooned, stifling a chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah," Sinclair laughed. "I know, I know...I should be grateful. And I am...to an extent. At least, 'til I fall asleep while talkin' to her on the phone."

"You've fallen asleep talking to your fiancee on the phone?" Soap queried incredulously.

"Might I remind ya' that I did say these phone calls were comin' in at three in the mornin'?"

"Aww, c'mon mate," Ghost laughed. "That's practically breakfast time for us."

"Yeah, an' none of us are exactly, as Soap put it, 'models of sanity.'"

Both Soap and Ghost laughed, but Ghost was already doing the math in his head. Five? Ghost could see Sinclair, Church, Alvarez, and Riley...but Wilson? Unless the bloke had done a complete 180 and Ghost hadn't noticed, Wilson was still more or less 'gunnin' for Angela. While he was ready to just write it off as an ex-boyfriend that Angela had ended things amicably with, Ghost was still curious as to who the fifth was.

()

By midday, the soldiers had finished up their physical exercises and were heading back to the main hall. Sinclair and Soap were waiting, and when he saw Alvarez, Sinclair gave the man a half-hearted grin.

"You said ya' were bored, huh?"

"Aw man," Alvarez groaned, wiping his forehead quickly. "That was a figure of speech, _hefe_! You don't need to be throwing me at any more pissed off people with guns."

"Better suck it up, princess," Sinclair warned slightly, holding up a folded piece of paper. "These orders are comin' from good 'ole Shepard 'imself."

"Yippee," Church grumbled under his breath.

Roach looked over at Church quickly, but Sinclair spoke up.

"Stow it, Church. Ya'll have got five minutes to get to the debriefin' room, so ya' better hop to it."

Once everybody was settled in the debriefing room, Sinclair pointed to the map that was pinned to the wall.

"This one's gonna' be a bit trickier than the last one," he said. "We got word that Yezhov is stayin' at a house in this town here. Seems she had to go see a doc after our little scrap at her 'precious' base."

Angela, who was sitting off in her corner again, grinned smugly. She still had a couple of sore spots from where Yezhov had used her as a punching bag, but at least Angela hadn't had to high-tail it out of there.

"We're still lookin' to catch Yezhov, alive, if possible," Sinclair continued. "Other part of this mission involves some...retrieval of some weapons these guys stole from us. We're gettin' split up into two teams again, since we've got patrols comin' in an' out of this town."

"Are there even any locals in this town?" Riley asked, raising his hand slightly.

"Last I heard, there are," Sinclair answered solemnly. "They're livin' under what's basically martial law right now since Yezhov moved in, but otherwise they're just a bunch of civvies that're in some bad straits."

"The civilians are one of our top priorities," Soap added. "We want to avoid civilian casualties at almost any cost. We're hoping that Yezhov will go down without too much of a fight, but if she starts to do something that puts the civilians at risk, then we have orders to back off and let her go."

There was a roll of murmurs amongst the soldiers. While none of them wanted to harm civilians, there was always an amount of surprise that came when the orders were to let a target go for the sake of civilians. Church seemed very relieved at the order, and Alvarez gave him a light punch to the shoulder, muttering something about Church being a "softie."

"The other part of the mission is the retrieval of launchers that are being transported," Soap said, following an obscure road on the map that ran along the outskirts of the town with his finger. "While we shouldn't have to worry about civilians too much, we are going to have to worry about armed guards and all sorts of unpleasant sorts looking to send us to whatever god we believe in. These launchers are in two trucks, and those two trucks are our targets. We need to hijack them and get them out of there as fast as we can."

"So we're going to have Alvarez driving one of them, huh? There's no way anybody can keep up with his driving," Riley quipped.

"You know what, man? Fuck you," Alvarez replied quickly, flipping Riley off.

Riley just laughed and returned the gesture.

"Actually, we've got Alvarez as one of the drivers," Sinclair said with a smirk. "Roach is going to be commandeerin' the other truck."

"I'm gonna' go Grand Theft Auto, you muthas!" Alvarez laughed.

Roach chuckled and shook his head.

"Bloody hell, I've got to drive with somebody who's quoting video game titles as their driving record."

"Yeah, just don't drive on the wrong side of the road," Alvarez said to Roach with a wink.

Roach gave Alvarez an exasperated glare, but was still grinning.

"Who're you kidding, Alvarez? You drive on the wrong side of the road all the time," Church commented.

"You know what? I'm just gonna' put a request to stay here," Alvarez said, crossing his arms. "You guys are too mean. Hey, Ghost, _hermano_, I could, you know, blend in here, yeah?"

Ghost stared at Alvarez with a deadpan stare for a few minutes, blinking and taking in what Alvarez had said. Then he slowly shook his head, fighting the urge to grin.

"Afraid not, mate. The Spanish might give it away a little. Besides, you really want to live on an island? Thought you hated the water."

Alvarez stopped as realization hit him.

"I'm okay with going back to the U.S.," he said quickly, leaning back in his chair. He glanced over at Ghost. "No offense or anything, though."

"None taken," Ghost said. Then he grinned. "Actually, Her Majesty and subjects would like to thank you for that decision."

Alvarez just sighed, looking quite dejected, but Riley reached over and shook his shoulders.

"Aw, c'mon, man. You know we wuv you," Riley teased.

"If you two are done," Soap interrupted, grinning faintly. "The team responsible for hijacking the trucks and getting those launchers is going to be Roach, Alvarez, Wilson, and Church. Wilson, you're going to be providing support for Alvarez, and Church, you're going to be helping out Roach. Sinclair will be leading this team, but his main priority is going to be making sure that both trucks get out of there."

"Whee...," Roach said quickly, mimicking turning a steering wheel. Alvarez followed up by pretending to honk the horn of the invisible vehicle he was driving.

"These launchers can be used by one man," Soap proceeded, ignoring the antics of Roach and Alvarez. "And there's at least three per truck that we know of and, for the sake of our drivers, they shouldn't be loaded. The main thing on these launchers is the tracking system that they're equipped with, but since the system is integrated with these launchers, it's not possible to do without the proper tools. So we're going to drive them to a safe evac point and fly them back here."

"Now then, fer' Yezhov," Sinclair said, pointing at a house on the map. "Last we heard, she's here, but the intel's pretty old already. So, the team goin' in is gonna' be Ghost and Angela, with Riley an' Soap actin' as support fire if necessary."

"Me, sir?" Angela asked, sounding confused.

"Yeah, we figured we'd give ya' Round 2 with Yezhov, let ya' get some revenge for her poppin' ya' in the face."

Angela just smiled and rolled her eyes.

"But in all seriousness," Sinclair continued, "there's a good chance that Yezhov's gonna' have some intel with her that we may just find useful. We need ya' to sort through it an' grab the good stuff. An' Ghost is gonna' be a gentleman and make sure that Yezhov doesn't have backup that's gonna' give ya' another black eye."

Ghost made a dramatic bow, and Angela giggled softly.

"We're moving out in twenty-four hours," Soap announced. "Be ready to go."

As people went to exit the debriefing room, Soap beckoned for Angela.

"Need to talk to you for a bit, girlie," he said.

Sinclair cast a glance sideways to Soap, but said nothing, a faint, knowing grin on his face. Sinclair waited until everybody else was out of the debriefing room before leaving the room himself, shutting the door behind him. Angela looked at the closed door, then to Soap, appearing confused. Soap just smiled faintly and walked over, smoothing back Angela's hair.

"Just wanted to tell you to be careful, luv," he said. "Try not to slip on snow, yeah?"

Angela laughed and ducked her head.

"Yeah, yeah...I'll be wearing nice, new shoes and everything," she mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly.

"Good girl," Soap chuckled, kissing her forehead quickly. "And try to play nice with Ghost."

"No promises."

()


	22. Chapter 22

()

The helicopter ride was going surprisingly smoothly after their previous luck, and they were rapidly nearing the landing zone.

"What do you think, Sinclair?" Riley yelled from his seat in the chopper. His injured leg had been tightly bandaged and, for the past couple of days, had been nothing more than a slight twinge of pain. "We actually gonna' make it to the LZ without incident?"

"Now that ya' went and jinxed it, prolly not!" Sinclair laughed. He glanced across to the other helicopter that was keeping pace, catching a quick wave from Ghost.

The first helicopter was carrying Sinclair, Riley, Roach, Church, and Angela, while the second was carrying Soap, Ghost, Alvarez, and Wilson. Bits of cloud were whizzing by, and the air was quickly dropping in temperature as it whipped around the two helicopters.

"Nearing the LZ," the pilot yelled back. "Get ready, ladies!"

"Why thank you for noticing!" Angela shouted back, feigning a mock giggle.

"And gentleman!" the pilot added with a grin.

"Very funny!" Angela laughed sarcastically, flipping off the pilot.

The helicopters slowly arced in a turn downwards, nearing the landing zone.

"Ya'll ready over there?" Sinclair asked Soap over the comm link.

"As ready as we'll ever be, mate!" Soap replied.

"Then let's go say 'greetins an' salutations' to some terrorists!"

As the helicopters began to buzz just above the ground, the two teams began to jump out of the choppers and made their way to a nearby forest that was to provide cover as they neared the town. The air was surprisingly cold, and it bit down through their layered protective clothing. Angela hissed under her breath as she sprinted the last few feet into the thick foliage. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a small, tight ponytail, but locks of it had already fallen loose, and they flicked around her face quickly. After she was in the safety of the forest, Angela slowed to a walk, looking behind her as the helicopters lifted off into the air. The low-hanging clouds whipped around the helicopters as they began to disappear into the grey fog, obscuring them from view as they undoubtedly began to make their way to the mountain range.

A sense of almost overwhelming deja vu struck her, and Angela felt her throat tighten. The last time she'd watched helicopters become enveloped by grey clouds, she'd had to say good-bye to one of the few people in the world Angela had come to trust and rely upon. She hadn't seen him since...

"You awake, Angie?" Alvarez asked her hoarsely, prodding her in the side.

Angela snapped out of her trance and looked over at Alvarez, who was giving her a concerned look.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she whispered back quickly. "Just...memories."

"Can't imagine they'd be too good given the situation," Alvarez answered.

"They weren't..."

Alvarez frowned slightly, but said nothing. Instead, he patted Angela on the shoulder lightly and began to trudge forward. Casting one last look over her shoulder at the helicopters that were now completely hidden from view, Angela sighed heavily and fell in step with the rest of the teams.

()

The town was eerily quiet, and though there were vehicles parked along the streets and some of the windows were lit up, there were no people walking around in the streets, and there weren't even any silhouettes in the windows.

The soldiers had split up into their assigned teams, and Sinclair's team was nearing what looked to be a small restaurant. Wilson reached the door that lead to the back of the restaurant, then gently gripped the doorknob and twisted it, feeling it resist.

"It's locked," he whispered.

"Go figure," Alvarez muttered.

"Are we going to just break into what looks like a family owned restaurant?" Wilson asked, looking over at Sinclair.

"It's the fastest way to the trucks," Alvarez reasoned.

"I ain't real pleased with the idea, either," Sinclair replied. "But we ain't got much of a choice. Go, go, go."

Grimacing slightly, Wilson brought the butt of his rifle down on the doorknob with a grunt of effort. It snapped and fell to the ground with a muted thud, and Wilson slowly pushed the door open with his foot. It creaked open slowly, and the dulled smells of various foods hit them.

"Damn, making me hungry," Church chuckled.

"Smells way better than the stuff they were serving last night for dinner," Alvarez commented with a grin.

"We're only allowed one good meal a week," Roach replied. "We used that up on Tuesday."

As they crept through the restaurant's kitchen, Sinclair glanced out one of the windows quickly. He could hear voices on the other side of the wall, but they were quiet and seemed pretty calm. So far, so good.

"What's the plan, boss?" Alvarez asked. "Sounds like we've got company on the other side."

"We'll give 'em a few minutes, see if any of 'em disperse. Last thing we need is to blow our cover 'fore we even get near the trucks," Sinclair replied. He looked over at Church, who had glanced out the window and now had a somewhat mollified look on his face. "Ya' see a ghost or somethin', there, sport?"

"You might want to take a look outside," Church answered, motioning to the window slowly. "I think we just have a whole new slew of problems."

Frowning and casting a glance around to the rest of the now confused team, Sinclair slowly made his way to the window and glanced out. He felt his blood go cold in his veins. There were at least triple the amount of soldiers that had been initially reported, and they were all armed to the teeth. There were at least two jeeps with mounted machine guns on them and the soldiers patrolling looked to be, while calm at the time, well aware of how important the launchers were. Christ, they even had canine patrols...

Sinclair hissed a curse and moved away from the window, leaning back against the wall.

"What's up, boss?" Alvarez asked. It took quite a bit to get Sinclair in a panic, and that was usually something that Alvarez didn't want to have to deal with.

"There's at least three times the soldiers out there," Sinclair grumbled. "They've got mounted machine guns on a couple of their jeeps, an' they even got goddamn dogs."

"Are you kidding me?" Alvarez whispered.

"They aren't taking any chances from the sound of it," Roach muttered, frowning.

"There ain't no way we're gonna' be able to out-gun 'em," Sinclair murmured, trying to think to himself. "Those dogs'll give us away if we get too close... We're gonna' need to distract as many of 'em as possible." Sinclair tapped on his comm link device. "Hotel Six, this is Redbird One."

"Aye, hear you Redbird One," Soap replied.

"We've got a pretty big problem. Three times the problem, actually," Sinclair explained. "There's at least triple the amount of soldiers here at the trucks. An' they've even got canine patrols 'n everythin', not to mention mounted machine guns on a couple of their jeeps. We're gonna' need a distraction if we're gonna' be able to get anywhere near the damn launchers."

"Understood, Redbird One," Soap answered. "Anything you can do over there where you're at?"

"A little bit," Sinclair replied, quickly looking around the kitchen. "We can at least make a lot of noise, but not sure if it's gonna' be much more than that. We're gonna' be facin' a whole helluva' lot of bullets an' need to keep as many away from us as possible."

"Got it. We'll see what we can do and give you the heads up."

"Much appreciated, Hotel Six," Sinclair replied.

"You got it, Redbird One. Hotel Six, out."

()

Sighing, Soap cut off the communication link and glanced over at his team. Ghost and Angela were talking to each other in hushed tones, while Riley was keeping a watch out through the small window of the garage that the team was currently taking cover in. Angela looked up at Soap and tilted her head to one side inquisitively.

"What's up?" she whispered.

"Seems Team A may have a bit of a problem," Soap replied. "There's at least three times the number of soldiers that were reported, plus a few dogs."

"Dogs?" Angela repeated. She frowned slightly. "I hate dogs. Way more of a cat person."

Soap paused for a few moments, then smiled and winked at Angela quickly, before looking around the garage.

"We're going to need to create some sort of distraction for them to try and pull as many of the soldiers as we can," Soap continued.

"We could do that once we've gotten all the intel that we can from Yezhov, yeah?" Ghost queried.

"May have to be sooner," Soap replied. "They need to get to those jeeps ASAP, and we can't waste too much time." Soap sighed again, frowning. He knew what they could do, but it wasn't something he wanted to do. "We can split up. Riley, you'll come with me and we're going to make as much noise as possible, and Ghost, you need to stay with Angela. Help her out with Yezhov...if that's even necessary."

"My sympathies to Yezhov," Ghost chuckled. "She-"

Ghost stopped in mid-sentence when the doorknob on the door to the garage began to twist. The team immediately crouched behind the small pickup truck in the garage, and just in time as the door swung open. The soft, light sound of footsteps were the only noise in the garage as they made their way around the garage. There was the sound of metal cans being shuffled on the shelves on the wall of the garage, and quiet, almost inaudible humming.

Soap looked over to his right, where the rest of the team was staying as quiet as possible. After a few more tense minutes, the noise stopped and there was the sound of the humming fading as the door closed slowly before clicking shut.

Riley breathed a slow sigh of relief, and Soap slowly stood up, looking over the edge of the pickup truck. When he saw nothing, he motioned for the rest of the team. They slowly rose, glancing around quickly.

"Well...that was close," Ghost murmured. He looked over at Soap. He knew that one of the last things Soap wanted to do was split the team up further, but as of right now, they didn't really have any other options. "How long you going to give us before you start up with the distraction?"

"You and Angela will have three minutes to get to the house that Yezhov is currently holed up in. Past that, expect all hell to break loose." Soap looked over at Riley. "You've got frag grenades, right, mate?"

"You better believe it," Riley replied with a faint grin. "Got enough to blow half this town sky-high if we can find a few propane tanks."

"Remember," Soap reminded, "we can't have civilian casualties if at all possible."

"Got it."

"All right, we're going to move out, then," Ghost said, shouldering his assault rifle. "Angela, you take point and I'll make sure no mean man sneaks up on you."

Angela rolled her eyes and giggled slightly before making her way to the back door of the garage. Ghost looked over at Soap and smiled.

"Don't worry, mate. I'll bring her back to you in one piece," he said confidently.

"You had better," Soap replied.

Ghost just chuckled and quickly fell behind Angela, following her out into the slowly falling snow. It was already starting to grow dark, and the grey skies were darkening to an almost navy bluish hue.

Riley looked up at Soap.

"You and Angela got a thing going on?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I...suppose that is what you'd call it," Soap replied, not entirely quite sure how to answer.

"Lucky man."

"Right, let's go," Soap said, stopping Riley before he could ask any further questions.

The two walked out the back door, Riley shivering slightly under the grip of the cold. Soap glanced over at him and then looked down the street. It was no longer empty, as there were a few soldiers walking down, but they appeared somewhat inebriated and completely oblivious to the presence of Soap and Riley.

"Let's go," Soap ordered, darting across the street to the cover of another house. After a few minutes, Riley quickly followed in Soap's steps. The soldiers were still too busy trying to walk off their drunken stupor and talking to each other, and Riley had to muffle a chuckle.

"So...should we just get them all drunk and call it good?" he whispered to Soap.

Soap chuckled and nodded slightly.

"Maybe, mate. Though I'm not sure they would all be so willing to get that soused. If they've got Yezhov running the show, it can only get worse from here..."

Though they couldn't see it at the time, Pirogov was slowly patrolling the hotel building that Ghost and Angela were drawing closer to.


	23. Chapter 23

()

As the snow began to fall harder, the distinct, hushed cascading noise as the snowflakes floated through the air filled the cold air. Angela took a short breath, feeling the snowflakes fluttering around her face. A short shiver ran through her body. She remembered the frigid nights that the Montana wilderness could produce, but this was a completely new level of cold. It seemed to seep through the protective layers of clothing she was wearing and bite down to the bone.

"You all right?"

Ghost's voice brought Angela out of her thoughts and she nodded slowly. She could see the doorway to the hotel that Yezhov was supposedly holed up in, and already Angela could feel her pulse starting to pound in her head and throat. Two soldiers were patrolling around the hotel, but they were doing so in a rather lazy manner. It didn't seem like they were expecting any unwanted guests. Glancing at Ghost quickly, Angela studied his face, or rather, his eyes. The rest of his face was concealed under the skull print balaclava that seemed to be his trademark piece of gear. If Ghost was nervous, he certainly didn't show it, and his gaze never faltered.

"How much resistance do you think we're going to be facing?" Angela whispered, still watching the door. In truth, she was starting to feel the familiar sense of reckless abandon that she had grown up with. It had started to encroach on her mindset ever since they had boarded the helicopters, and Angela was torn between fighting it off and simply embracing it.

"Hard to say, really," Ghost replied, shrugging slightly as the butt of his assault rifle began to dig into his shoulder. He then winked at Angela quickly. "Though given how bad you beat up Yezhov, she may be running scared at this point."

"If only we could be so lucky," Angela grumbled.

"You never know," Ghost said quietly. "All right. We're going to let those guards go by the door and the moment the go around the corner, we're going to make a run for the door, understood?"

"Got it."

"Try to keep a nice pace, though," Ghost chided teasingly. "I'm not as fast as some little CIA agents around here."

"Haha," Angela retorted. "If I wasn't afraid of it freezing, I'd stick my tongue out at you."

Ghost just chuckled softly, but they both fell silent when the guards began to walk by the doorway once again. They were chatting to each other and walked right past the doorway, and then turned the corner of the building.

"Go, go, go," Ghost hissed.

Angela needed no more of a cue. She sprinted forward, the snow crunching under her shoes. Her breathing, however, was steady and maintained, and she reached the door before Ghost, stopping at the doorway, assault rifle at the ready. Ghost stopped and aimed his gun at the door, then nodded to Angela, who quickly opened the door. There was a short creak, but it promptly dissipated. Ghost darted inside, checking the surrounding room.

It was eerily empty.

"Clear," he whispered.

Angela stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her. She glanced around the room. It was a small, but cozy looking lobby, with a crackling fire burning in a soot covered fireplace. There were empty chair surrounding round, wooden tables with small vases in the middle of them. Fake flowers completed the look, and a television sat at the back of the small lobby, its dusty screen dark.

"Ghost, there's something wrong here," Angela said quietly.

He didn't get a chance to answer. Two loud explosions rocked the air and rattled their surroundings.

Soap and Riley had began to create a distraction. 

() 

The first grenade had just managed to blast a large hole in what appeared to be a pasture, but the second and third grenades had been perfectly timed, exploding in unison. The reverberations from the explosion shook the air and both Soap and Riley could hear soldiers yelling orders at each other.

"Well, we sure got their attention," Riley said, holding another grenade at the ready. "Shall I make the third time the charm?"

"Save them," Soap ordered. "We may need them."

Currently they were hidden behind a house, and even through the walls, Soap could hear the panicked screaming and cries of the family inside. He wasn't exactly happy with terrifying the family, but given the situation and how pressed they were for time, they didn't have very many options.

"Redbird One, this is Hotel Six. I think you just heard your distraction," Soap said into the communication device.

"Heard it loud an' clear, Hotel Six. Thank ya' for that. Hey, Alvarez, get the-"

Sinclair's voice was abruptly cut short and there was a loud clatter of gunfire, followed by the sound of glass shattering.

"Shit, shit, shit! Roach! Get down!"

There was a loud thud and Soap heard Roach yelp over the communication link.

"Hotel Six! This is Redbird One! Cover's been blown! They're right on top of us! Goddammit! Alvarez? Alvarez!"

"Redbird One, where are you?" Soap had to control his voice to not yell.

There was only shouting and gunfire.

"What's wrong?" Riley asked hoarsely, looking mildly panicked.

"Looks like our distraction wasn't enough," Soap replied. "Good thing you saved those grenades. We're going to need them."

"We've got multiple targets incoming, sir. At least ten, so I don't think that distraction was a total failure," Riley answered sharply, glancing around the corner of the house and down the street. "Unless we find cover immediately, we're dead."

"Get inside the house," Soap ordered.

"Inside the house?" Riley repeated. "There's a family in there, sir."

"Do not question my orders, soldier," Soap snapped back gruffly.

Riley immediately snapped to attention and darted to the house's back door. By some short miracle, it was unlocked, and Riley opened the door and dashed inside, and Soap quickly followed. The room looked to be some sort of laundry room, and it was rather cramped. He shut the door behind them, then looked over at Riley, who was staring at the doorway, or rather, staring at the small girl in the doorway.

Slowly, Riley brought a finger up to his lips and made a quiet shushing noise. The girl blinked quickly and stared at Riley and Soap before quickly turning around and running away, shrieking the entire time.

"Shit...!" Riley cursed. "I never was good with kids."

"Go, go," Soap ordered. "We just need to get through the house."

Riley made his way down the hallway, trying to avoid his gear getting caught on the door handles of the cabinets that lined the hallway. Soap followed behind him, keeping an eye on the door. He could hear the soldiers shouting, but fortunately, for the time being, they seemed to be searching near where the grenades had detonated and not where Soap and Riley had been.

When the reached the kitchen, Riley glanced around and saw the front door. They'd have to cut through the living room, and there was where the slight problem seemed to be. The small girl and what appeared to be her two siblings and mother were huddled in the corner of the living room, the mother trying her best to cover her children.

"No, no, it's okay, it's okay," Riley said quickly, holding his hands up. "We're leaving. Sorry, sorry for barging in!"

"Go, Riley," Soap ordered, keeping his voice quiet and an eye on the family. They were utterly terrified, and Soap didn't expect the mother to do anything foolish, but he couldn't take any risks.

"Wait!" the woman suddenly cried.

Riley's hand was hovering over the doorknob and he looked over at the woman.

"What? What is it?"

"No...no that way," the woman warned, struggling to find the proper words. "No that way."

"Which way?" Soap asked.

At the sound of somebody pounding on the door, Riley jumped back, instinctively going for his rifle and aiming it at the door.

"No, no, please!" the woman begged. "This way! This way!"

She led them down a hallway, and into what appeared to be the room for at least one, if not two, of her three children. Toys were scattered around the floor and she quickly began shoveling them aside, clearing a path towards a window.

"Hallway," she said, pointing at the window.

"She wants us to go back down the hallway?" Riley asked quickly, looking over his shoulder as he heard shouting at the front door.

"Don't think so," Soap replied. "It's an alleyway."

"Thank you," Riley said to the woman quickly as she opened the window.

Riley crawled out of the window and Soap heard a thud as Riley landed on the snow covered ground. It was apparently a longer drop than anticipated...

"Thank you," Soap told the woman.

The woman nodded quickly in response and ushered Soap out the window, closing it quickly behind him.

The drop was only about three feet, but his boots slid against the slick snow, and Soap winced as he felt a sharp jab of pain shoot up his left ankle as it twisted.

"Dammit," he hissed. This mission was getting worse and worse.

Across town, Soap and Riley could hear the gunfire that they could only assume was hailing down on Sinclair's team. It seemed to be continuous and unrelenting, and at this rate, there was no telling if Sinclair's team was still alive, dead, or captured.

"You all right?" Riley asked, looking over at Soap.

"Should be," Soap replied, trying to put as much pressure as he could on his left foot. His left ankle flared in pain in response. "Messed up my ankle a bit, though."

"Can you walk?" Riley inquired. He was looking at Soap and then over his shoulder to where they could hear the gunfire.

"Aye, just go," Soap ordered, gritting his teeth.

He could only hope that Angela and Ghost were faring better... 

()

The kitchen had been absolutely riddled with bullets, and had sent shards of glass, wood, and even bits of metal as the bullets tore through some of the metal cooking ware that had been on the cabinets. Sinclair had just been able to knock Roach out of the way, but there was now a sharp, searing pain biting deep into his right side. Both Roach and Sinclair were lying on the floor, neither of them able to really move for fear of being hit by the seemingly constant barrage of bullets.

"Did they bring the whole goddamn Russian army?" Wilson yelled.

"They're a splinter group, remember?" Church hollered back. He looked over at Sinclair and felt stomach tighten in dread when he saw a small pool of blood starting to well up underneath the team leader's side. "Captain! Sinclair!"

Sinclair looked over his shoulder at Church, and though he didn't say anything, pain flickered in his eyes. Upon hearing Church's voice, Roach looked over at Sinclair and saw the same small pool of blood.

"Where are you hurt?" Roach asked.

"Right side," Sinclair hissed between gritted teeth.

Roach immediately scrambled into a crouched position, then looked over at Church, who was already getting ready to dart over to where Roach and Sinclair were taking cover behind one of the island tables in the kitchen. All Church had to do was make it across the three feet of empty space...and that was looking to be a challenge in itself.

"Who's hurt?" Wilson asked Church. The two had been huddled behind a thick wooden table with a metal cover that they had flipped over onto its side.

"Sinclair!" Church replied.

Not waiting for Wilson to ask another question, Church dashed across the three foot span, flinching and ducking as bullets continued to whizz through the air and splinters of wood pelted his face. He managed to make it, though, and Roach already had Sinclair up into a sitting position. Though he was still very coherent, he was clutching at his side, and that's when Church could see the large, jagged piece of glass jutting out of Sinclair's right side.

"Your tetanus shots better be up to date," Church said, managing a weak grin.

"They're as up to date as yers," Sinclair replied, laughing hoarsely.

"Shit, sorry, sir," Roach grumbled, frowning and working on keeping Sinclair still. All three knew what Church was about to do, and Sinclair had to hold as still as possible.

"What're ya' sorry fer?" Sinclair asked, raising an eyebrow.

Church grabbed the piece of glass, it was almost as wide as his hand, and then pulled it free. Sinclair snarled a fierce curse and clenched his teeth tightly, but remained sitting still. Church tossed the piece of glass aside, quickly pressing a folded set of bandages against the now profusely bleeding injury.

"What're the chances...there's still...glass in there?" Sinclair wheezed, holding the bandages against the wound so that Church had his hands free. Roach was still keeping Sinclair steady, and kept glancing over his shoulder in concern at the door. The hailstorm of bullets was starting to ebb, but there was nothing saying that the soldiers wouldn't charge through the door.

"Didn't look like the glass had broken or anything," Church replied. "But with the rate things are going, I'd say there's probably at least three shards of glass working their way up to your heart right now to rip it to shreds."

"Ain't ya' just...a ball of sunshine...?"

Suddenly, the gunfire ceased completely. The team froze, and all immediately readied their weapons, even though they were hopelessly outnumbered, they weren't going to go down without a fight.

"What the hell's going on?" Church hissed.

"Looks like they've stopped...for now," Alvarez announced in a hushed tone, daring to peek over the table that had kept him safe. "_Madre de dios_...they turned the whole goddamn wall into Swiss cheese."

"Looks like they're either fighting over the radio or...no...looks like they're trying to find somebody," Wilson whispered.

"Probably trying to find somebody that speaks English."

"Ain't they nice? Givin' us a translator."

"Yeah, maybe they'll shoot us rather than taking us prisoner," Church said grimly.


	24. Chapter 24

() 

As they entered the suite room of the hotel, Ghost scanned the room quickly. Again, the room was empty, but the small desk in the suite was covered in paperwork and there were two laptops sitting side by side, screensavers playing silently on the displays.

"Seriously, where is everybody?" Angela demanded quietly.

"No clue, dear," Ghost whispered back.

Angela cautiously approached the table, glancing over the paperwork. Most of it was in Russian, and while her Russian was rusty, she could tell that most of the paperwork wasn't of anything of importance. She ran her finger over both of the trackpads on the laptops in one quick swipe, and both displays flickered on quickly.

From the corner of her eye, she saw what appeared to be a large shadow seemingly materialize out of the darkened bathroom of the room. It only took Angela a split second to realize it was a man, a tall one at that, and he was heading straight for Ghost.

It was Pirogov.

"Ghost!" she shrieked. "Look out!"

Her warning came too late, though, and the man landed a swift punch straight across Ghost's jaw.

Ghost staggered back, his sight reeling and lower jaw crackling with pain. As he fell back, he saw Pirogov produce a pistol from the heavy coat he was wearing over his combat fatigues and train the sight on Angela. Swinging his assault rifle in a wide arc, he managed strike Pirogov's wrist with the barrel of the rifle, knocking the pistol up at the ceiling. But not before Pirogov managed to get a shot off.

The bullet slammed into Angela's left shoulder and she staggered, crying out in pain and feeling the numbing shock start to spread through her shoulder. The impact stung enough that she couldn't tell if the bullet had penetrated the vest she had been wearing or not, but she didn't have time to guess.

Pulling her rifle up, she aimed at Pirogov, but he was already one step ahead of her. Having sent Ghost reeling, Pirogov, in two swift steps, grabbed the barrel of Angela's assault rifle, aiming it up at the ceiling and practically rendering it harmless. He brought the butt of the pistol down on Angela's left shoulder.

A fresh new spring of pain shot through Angela's entire left side and she fell back, collapsing onto the floor. Pirogov, looking frighteningly calm throughout the entire fight, once again aimed the pistol at Angela. By this time, though, Ghost had gotten his bearings back, and charged Pirogov, slamming the butt of the assault rifle between Pirogov's shoulder blades.

While it diverted Pirogov's attention from Angela, he swung around, catching Ghost across the face with the pistol. He then landed a square kick in Ghost's stomach, and when Ghost doubled over, it was enough to allow Pirogov to knock the assault rifle from Ghosts' hands. Ghost quickly retaliated by striking Pirogov's wrist sharply, sending the pistol spiraling out of Pirogov's hand.

For a brief second, Pirogov actually looked perturbed, and he punched Ghost across the jaw again. Small spatters of blood hit the floor, as it had soaked through the balaclava that Ghost was wearing. Though he stumbled slightly, Ghost lunged back at Pirogov, landing two quick, but solid punches across Pirogov's face.

As her vision struggled to clear, Angela could hear Pirogov shouting something in Russian, and Ghost was snarling every vile curse Angela had ever heard. Then she could hear the strikes being landed, and realized that Ghost was getting a rather brutal beating.

_-We do not leave our brothers and sisters behind!-_

"...right," Angela muttered, staggering to her feet.

_-Their pain is your pain!-_

"Stop it," Angela hissed, locking her gaze on Pirogov.

Of course, neither Pirogov or Ghost heard Angela, as Pirogov was busy trying to choke the life out of Ghost, and Ghost was doing everything in his considerable power to break free of Pirogov's grip.

_-Leave none standing...-_

"Stop it!"

Angela's shrieked order sounded feral enough that it actually pulled Pirogov's attention away from Ghost, but by that point, Angela had already leapt onto Pirogov's back, locking her arm around his throat and doing a mixture of trying to choke him to death and to break his neck. Snarling, Pirogov released Ghost, who stumbled back, and grabbed Angela by the hair and collar of her jacket, flinging her over and slamming her onto her back.

Though she gasped hoarsely, Angela quickly snapped back to her senses, growling at Pirogov and rolling over and back onto her feet promptly. Pirogov, though his bottom lip was bleeding profusely and his nose was badly bruised and possibly broken, eyed Angela calmly but narrowly. Angela breathed in slowly...and suddenly charged Pirogov. She hit him with enough force to momentarily lift him off the ground, and crashed him into the wall.

Seizing the opportunity, Ghost lunged to snatch up the assault rifle that had been wrenched from his grasp...only to find it under Yezhov's boot.

"Call your little blonde bitch off," Yezhov ordered, holding a knife and glaring down at Ghost.

"Not likely, miss," Ghost grumbled.

With that, Ghost tackled Yezhov, wincing as he felt the blade dig into his back. His protective vest, however, did its job, and stopped the blade from burying itself in his back. With a shriek, Yezhov fell back, the blade slipping from her grip.

With a grunt, Ghost heaved Yezhov up onto his shoulder and then threw her into the nightstand table.

"Yezhov!" Pirogov yelled, hearing Yezhov yelp.

Pirogov, however, had just as big a problem with Angela, who he had managed to kick away, had already closed in on him again, this time, she had unsheathed her combat knife that had been strapped to her thigh. Snatching up one of the books that had been resting on the table, Pirogov used it as a shield against Angela's knife attacks. Mid-way through just barely blocking an arc aimed directly at his head, Pirogov grimly realized that while he could overpower Angela, the real trick was out-maneuvering her.

The knife blade suddenly flashed and cut into Pirogov's bicep, blood quickly welling around the wound. Seizing the opportunity, he grabbed Angela's wrist that was connected to the hand that was currently wielding the knife. With a short shriek, Angela swung her free hand around, but Pirogov used his other hand to snag her fist, yank it over and crossing Angela's arms. He pulled her close roughly. Even though the maneuver locked the blade into his arm, Pirogov managed to smile grimly, still looking impossibly calm.

"Feisty little woman, aren't you?" he crooned. "Let's hope the rest of your American friends are as tough as you."

Though she struggled to try and drive the blade deeper, Pirogov managed to hold Angela's hand steady, feeling her bones start to creak and threaten to crack under his iron grip. If she felt any pain, she didn't show it, but at the word 'American,' a quick flash of a micro-expression flashed across Angela's face.

That was all the opportunity that Pirogov needed.

He viciously snapped Angela's arms downwards, her hand reactively releasing the knife blade, but not before it cut further across Pirogov's arm. Angela cried out and fell to her knees, two sharp stabs of pain racing through her arm.

Pirogov brought his knee up fiercely, cracking it against Angela's chin. He grabbed her head, and Angela immediately jerked back furiously, realizing that Pirogov had every intent of snapping her neck. While she managed to free herself, Pirogov took out a handful of her blonde hair.

Behind him, he heard Yezhov shriek. Whirling around, he saw Ghost had her pinned and was trying to drive a combat knife into what looked like her chest. Ignoring Angela for the moment, Pirogov lunged and tackled Ghost, crushing the SAS soldier against the wall. The entire wall shuddered from the impact, pictures falling to the floor.

Gasping, Yezhov scrabbled away, glaring at Ghost and kicking him in the head in a fit of rage.

Ghost winced as he felt his ribs threaten to break under the sudden impact, but he managed to keep from getting the wind knocked out of him completely. He glared furiously at Pirogov, doubling up his fist and cracking against the dark-haired man's temple. 

()

_"We're not surrendering, you assholes!"_ Alvarez shouted angrily in Spanish. He got some grim satisfaction out of the mildly confused looks that were cast between a few of the soldiers, but quickly ducked down.

"Keep yer' damn head down, Alvarez!" Sinclair ordered. "Last thing we need is fer' ya' to get yer' fool head shot open."

"Sorry, _hefe_," Alvarez quickly apologized. "They're not moving, though."

"What gives?" Church asked, eyeing Sinclair's injury. "They've got us pinned. Why don't they just move in?"

"They may not know how many of us there are," Wilson pointed out. "They may think there's just enough of us to cause problems for them."

"They've got armored vehicles with mounted machine guns!" Church hissed. "We'd need a whole goddamn army to stand up against these guys! That or a miracle."

"Hey, you've got the nickname," Wilson joked grimly. "Why not start praying?"

Though he said nothing, Chruch gave Wilson an exasperated look.

There was a slight drag of silence as the soldiers struggled to come up with ideas. They could hear the Russian soldiers outside still talking amongst themselves, and the familiar metallic clinking noise of the mounted machine guns slowly tracking across what they could only guess would be their location.

"They could mow us down right now," Roach muttered. "Why aren't they?"

"We're far more useful to them alive than dead," Wilson replied.

Swallowing hard, Roach stared down at a broken plate, studying the shattered pieces.

Suddenly, a crackle of static came over the communication device in Sinclair's ear.

"You said you needed a miracle there, Redbird One?"

It was Riley.

"Sonuvabitch," Sinclair laughed weakly, wincing. "Redbird Four, is that you?"

"Yes it is, sir. And I've got about four more frag grenades that are just itching to get primed and thrown."

"Sounds good, son," Sinclair replied. "See if ya' can take out even one of those damn armored trucks. Last thing we need is those machine guns mowin' us down."

"Got it, Redbird One."

"Redbird Four, one other thing."

"Yeah, sir?"

"Do _not_, and I repeat, do _not_, get yerself seen or blow up those trucks with the launchers in 'em. Otherwise this whole mess'll be fer' nothin'."

"Will do, sir. Redbird Four, out," Riley laughed.

"Who was that?" Alvarez asked hopefully.

"Riley," Sinclair said with a weak smile. He was vaguely aware of the fact that the feeling was starting to drain from his side. Grimly he realized that he was losing more blood than he'd thought. "Sneaky little sonuvabitch is about to give us that miracle we were askin' fer."

"And that would be?"

In response, a deafening explosion rattled the air, and the panicked shouts of the soldiers outside quickly followed. Another explosion came promptly afterwards, and this time there was the horrendous sound of shrieking metal as it was ripped apart.

"One truck down," Wilson said. "Hopefully it was one of the trucks with a machine gun on it."

"Better to have been," Sinclair mumbled.

"Sir?" Roach queried, looking at Sinclair a little closer. "You okay, sir?"

"Yeah," Sinclair replied, nodding his head quickly. "Lost a bit more blood than I thought."

Roach frowned, and then quickly ducked his head when another explosion shattered the air. This one was dangerously close, and part of the already bullet-hole ridden wall gave way, collapsing under the sudden shockwave.

"Is he trying to blow up the trucks or kill us?" Wilson snapped angrily.

There was a sudden shout and the now almost quiet sound of gunfire.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Riley shouted, his voice coming through the communication device. "Goddammit, sir, I'm sorry! They saw me!"

"Open fire!" Sinclair ordered to his team. "Take out as many as ya' can!"

Almost in unison, the soldiers responded, picking off the ones that were too concerned with trying to shoot Riley. Alvarez suddenly yelped, falling back and grabbing at his left shoulder. Immediately, Church darted over and began prying Alvarez's hand away.

"What happened?" Church demanded.

"Think one of them shot me!" Alvarez groaned, gritting his teeth.

Finally managing to pull Alvarez's hand away, Church quickly inspected the wound, fumbling with the first aid pouch on his belt.

"It's just a graze! It's just a graze!" Church reassured, quickly taping down a gauze pad over the wound. "They didn't shoot you!"

"Oh yeah?" Alvarez growled. "Well I'm sure as hell going to shoot them!"

With that, Alvarez quickly began returning fire at the soldiers, snarling furiously and screaming every vile curse he could think of in a mix of both Spanish and English.

A fourth and final explosion, courtesy of Riley's grenades, sent one of the vehicles with a mounted machine gun leaping into the air a few short feet. The eruption of fire and smoke made the soldiers that weren't hit by the blast scramble back. There still remained one more vehicle with a mounted machine gun, and the machine gun began to whir to life.

"Get to cover!" Sinclair bellowed, realizing what was about to happen.

The soldiers darted further back into the kitchen, putting more tables and counters between them and the sudden, hellacious onslaught of bullets. The scream of the machine gun drown out all other sounds, and Sinclair's team was reduced to huddling down to avoid being ripped to shreds. 

() 

Even down in the lobby, Soap could hear the commotion upstairs. It sounded like they were trying to break down every wall in the upper section of the hotel. Still limping slightly, Soap made his way to the stairs. Cursing under his breath, he went up the stairs as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in his ankle.

The door to the hotel suite room was slightly ajar, and Soap could see the flashes of the fight. There was a crash of glass and a feminine shriek, and Soap sprinted towards the door, kicking it in. He immediately trained his assault rifle on Yezhov, who was midway through reaching for a knife that was lying on the floor.

"Don't even think about it," Soap growled.

"About time you showed up, mate!" Ghost yelled, already darting for the window. "Angela!"

Looking out the broken window, Ghost realized that both Angela and Pirogov had tumbled down the awning of the hotel's first floor and to the snow covered ground below. Both had gotten to their feet, but Pirogov seemed almost gleefully confident. Glancing around the room quickly, Ghost realized that the pistol that Pirogov had been wielding initially was now gone.

"Angela!" Ghost cried. "He's armed! Bloody bastard's armed!"

Ghost's warning came just seconds too late. Pirogov took aim at Angela and fired. The bullet struck the left side of Angela's chest, just below the shoulder. She spun from the impact, but somehow stayed on her feet. Pirogov tilted his head to one side, seeming to be both impressed and curious, and then fired another shot. This one hit Angela in the stomach, and she stumbled back, this time losing her footing and collapsing onto her back.

By this point, Ghost had snatched up his fallen assault rifle and had started to take aim at Pirogov. Having already picked up on the fact he was a glaring target, Pirogov darted underneath the awning of the hotel. That didn't stop Ghost from firing a few rounds through the awning, trying to hit Pirogov on blind luck.

"He shot her!" Ghost shouted to Soap. "Goddamn bastard!"

His attention momentarily diverted, Soap didn't see Yezhov grab one of the writing pens from the floor. She quickly swung the pen around, stabbing it deep into Soap's left thigh. Grimacing and bringing down the butt of his assault rifle, Soap barely missed Yezhov as she darted around him and down the hallway. He started to shoot Yezhov, but paused, remembering that they wanted her alive.

Snarling, Soap wrenched the pen out of his thigh and dashed to the window, climbing out of it and sliding down the awning to the ground below. Gritting his teeth at the spear of pain that shot up his twisted ankle, Soap quickly crouched to Angela's side. To her credit, Angela was slowly writhing around, trying to roll over.

"Oi, Angela, easy! Just hold still for two seconds, luv," Soap said quickly, pulling away her insulated jacket. He could see blood seeping up around her left shoulder, but there was no blood around the other bullet holes.

"Ow, he shot me. The asshole shot me," Angela groaned, hitting the ground weakly with a fist.

"You're damn lucky he didn't shoot you in the head," Soap noted, taking a quick inspection of the gunshot wound on Angela's shoulder. He could hear the grenade explosions and machine gun fire off to the corner of town. Riley must have already made it to Sinclair's team, but it sounded like Sinclair could use all the backup they could get.

The wound seemed to have missed anything vital, surprisingly enough, and Soap momentarily wondered if Pirogov had purposefully spared Angela's life. Looking at the vest Angela was wearing, Soap laughed bitterly and managed to quickly pry one of the bullets out of the vest.

"Lucky girl," he said, holding up the bullet. He quickly began helping Angela to her feet, looking at the back of her shoulder. There was an exit wound. At least there was no bullet lodged in her shoulder... "Your shoulder looks okay. Clean shot through and through."

"Yippee," Angela grumbled, quickly zipping up her jacket.

"Come on, we have to go," Soap ordered. "Sinclair's team's pinned down."

Ghost had already slid down the awning and landed on the ground lightly. He looked at Soap and Angela and nodded sharply.  
>"Let's do this."<p> 


	25. Chapter 25

()

Huddling behind what seemed to be a stack of snow and ice covered firewood, Riley flinched and covered his head with his left arm as he heard bullets pinging and thudding into the firewood. It wasn't the best cover, but it was far better than being out in the open.

He had one last grenade, but at this rate, Riley was starting to believe it would take a full forced air-strike to clear the area. Growling and gripping the grenade tightly, Riley tried to focus on where he could hear the high-pitched shriek of a mounted machine gun. His ears rang with a deafening whine, and regardless of the white-knuckled death grip that he had on the grenade, his hand shook uncontrollably.

"C'mon," Riley hissed, his finger hooking into the pin of the grenade. "C'mon, you son of a bitch. Just let me know where you're at!"

"Riley!"

Sinclair's voice rattled over the comm link.

"Sir?!" Riley asked, fumbling for the communication device in his ear. "Redbird One! What is it?"

"The trucks 'r gone!" Sinclair shouted hoarsely. "They moved the goddamn things!"

"Shit! Orders, sir?"

"We're fallin' back! Get back to the forest! I'm givin' the order to retreat!"

Letting his finger fall from the grenade pin, Riley quickly put the grenade back into his pack and looked around quickly, desperately trying to find an escape route. Anywhere he ran to would put him right in the line of fire, and Riley had already been shot once this month, and he wasn't really keen on getting shot again.

"Goddammit, I can't move without getting ripped apart," Riley grumbled.

"Hold on, mate! We'll get you a couple of minutes."

Hearing Ghost's voice over the communication link made Riley jump slightly, but once he was over his initial shock, he grinned widely.

"Holy shit. You guys are godsends!"

"Aye, that we are. Get ready to run," Soap ordered.

Scrambling to his feet so that he could sprint at a moment's notice, Riley waited for the cue from either Soap or Ghost. Upon hearing the startled shouts of the enemy soldiers, Riley tensed, barely avoiding lunging forward and darting towards the forest.

"Go, go, go!" Soap yelled.

Launching himself forward, Riley sprinted as fast as he could, desperate to at least put a building between him and the enemy soldiers. A few bullets whizzed by him, and one even punched into the ground at his feet, but it was far fewer bullets than he would have been facing less than a minute ago.

The forest seemed to be miles away, and Riley couldn't seem to run fast enough. He neared what appeared to be a shop of some sorts. Lunging through the window, Riley closed his eyes as the glass shattered around him and sprayed into the air. He thudded against the floor, knocking the air out of him.

By this point, the enemy soldiers had realized that Riley had escaped, and they were trying to split their gunfire between Soap and Ghost and then Riley. But Riley had managed to find safety inside the gift shop, and he felt guilty for having smashed through the window. If he wasn't needing to run for his life, Riley would have left a note of apology on the front desk.

Dashing for the front door, Riley leapt off the porch of the gift shop, avoiding the stairs completely. Off to his far left, he could see the rest of his team making their way towards the forest. His heart stumbled over a beat when he saw that Sinclair was practically being dragged along by Church, with Roach and Alvarez providing as much covering fire as possible. Riley wanted to call out to his commanding officer, to at least confirm that Sinclair was coherent enough to respond, but Riley knew there was no way that Sinclair would be able to hear him over the consistent gunfire.

Movement to his right made Riley look over. Soap, Ghost, and Angela were running towards the forest as fast as they could, with Angela outpacing everybody with ease. The three were taking turns providing covering fire, and Riley could only guess that by this point the enemy soldiers were mobilizing to run them down.

They had to run faster.

As the forest line drew closer and closer, Riley fought to ignore the burning ache that was seeping through his lungs and trying to choke the breath out of him. The cold air was nothing but a detriment at this point, and a stray thought wanted to call shenanigans on the whole idea of 'global warming.'

()

Angela darted past Soap as he lay down another quick burst of covering fire, feeling her assault rifle mercilessly hammer into her back. She was having to slow herself down, as she couldn't leave Soap and Ghost in the proverbial dust. But she could hear the enemy drawing closer, and even though her pulse was pounding in her head, Angela could hear the engines of the remaining trucks revving up.

"We're almost there!" Ghost yelled. "Keep going!"

Angela started to slow to use the last of her ammunition reserves to provide covering fire, but Soap grabbed her arm and pulled her forward.

"Don't stop!" he ordered breathlessly. "Just keep running!"

Sprinting forward, Angela practically leapt over the threshold of the forest line, hearing Soap and Ghost crash through the foliage and dead tree branches that littered the ground. Angela jumped over a large dead branch, staggering slightly but quickly maintaining her footing as she continued to run forward.

"Go left!" Soap ordered. "We should be catching up with them!"

"You doing all right, Angie?" Ghost called.

"Never better!" Angela cried back, vaulting over another pile of dead foliage. "Could do this for days!"

"Well aren't you the talented little bint," Ghost laughed hoarsely.

The trio continued to charge through the foliage. They could hear the enemy soldiers and vehicles, but the sounds were slowly but surely fading.

"There they are!" Angela yelled, veering off sharply to the left.

Soap and Ghost followed, seeing Riley and then the rest of the team.

"Shite, is Sinclair hurt?" Soap asked.

Fighting the urge to yell out to Sinclair, Angela put on a last burst of speed and tried to close the gap between her and the rest of the team as quickly as she could. The back of her throat was raw and dry, and her sides ached as they fought to take in as much air as they could, but, for the moment, Angela was able to ignore the pain.

Nearing the group, Angela looked at Church, who had heard them.

"Sinclair?" Angela asked, panic seeping into her voice. "Sinclair!"

"Yeah, yeah," Sinclair rasped. "I hear ya'."

"What the hell happened to you?" Angela gasped, slowing to a brisk jog.

"Decided I wanted to see what it felt like to be ah magic trick gone wrong," Sinclair replied with a half-hearted grin.

Angela's stomach turned to icewater to see a faint rim of blood rising to Sinclair's mouth, but she said nothing. She could only imagine that by this point, Sinclair was well aware of his injuries and didn't need the obvious pointed out.

"You okay, there, sir?" Ghost inquired, running up to the two.

"He should be," Church answered roughly. "We need to get to someplace safe so I can properly treat the wound, though."

Ghost looked at Church, then back to Sinclair, who nodded weakly.

As the group continued through the ever thickening forest, any and all sounds of the enemy soldiers faded away into almost muted echoes. Soap looked to Wilson, who was still casting cautious glances over his shoulder.

"Get HQ on the radio," Soap ordered to Wilson. "We need immediate evac before those bastards find us!"

"Yes, sir," Wilson replied smartly. While he immediately set to work on trying to get a decent signal for the radio, Soap walked over to where Church had Sinclair sitting with his back against a large tree. Church was hurriedly sifting through the now jumbled contents of his med kit, and Soap winced when he saw the wound on Sinclair's side.

"Bloody hell, mate," Soap muttered, crouching down and looking at Sinclair, who was already pale. "You know you're supposed to avoid catching the glass with your body?"

Sinclair chuckled hoarsely and winced as Church began to quickly run an antiseptic pad over the deep gouge. The edges were lined with a dark red, and it seemed like the injury wouldn't stop bleeding.

"You're not going to like me, sir," Church muttered, producing a needle and thread.

"Aw, fuck," Sinclair grumbled.

"Oi, mate, up here," Soap said, lightly patting the side of Sinclair's face. "Don't need to be watching that anyways."

"Yeah, yeah...I know," Sinclair replied with a weak smile.

"So...what's this I hear about you having a fiance? You actually found somebody to put up with all your nonsense?"

Sinclair laughed hoarsely and started to nod, but was cut short by a sharp wince as he felt the needle pierce through his skin. After a few minutes of deep breaths, Sinclair continued nodding.

"You betcha'," he replied, his eyes now half-lidded. "Woman's a saint half the time an' a she-devil th' other half."

"Eyes open, mate," Soap stated. "Can't have them closing."

"I hear ya'. Dammit, must've lost couple more pints than I thought..."

"You're tougher than I gave you credit for, you know, being a Yankee and all," Soap chuckled with a wink.

"Oh yeah?" Sinclair asked, managing to open his eyes. "I'll bet ya' twenty bucks I could drink yer' Scottish ass under the table."

"Could you now?" Soap laughed. He cast a quick glance to Church, who was almost halfway done with the stitching.

"Ya' better believe it." Sinclair sighed and raised an eyebrow slightly. "How ya' doin' there, Church?"

"Halfway done, sir," Church replied, not looking up. "You're being a real trooper. I'll even make sure you get a lollipop for being such a good patient."

"Yippee," Sinclair cheered weakly.

"All right, mate," Soap said with a grin. "You threw down the gauntlet, so you're on. I'll even be nice and let you get healed up before I make you a liar."

"Yer' on. After this I think I could go for a few stiff drinks."

"Sir?" Wilson said, walking up to Soap.

"Aye?" Soap asked, standing up and looking at Wilson.

"They said this zone is too hot for pickup," Wilson reported quietly. "Gave us a rendezvous point that's about three miles from here."

"Did you tell them about Sinclair's current condition?" Soap inquired tersely.

"I did, sir," Wilson answered, grimacing slightly. "They said they couldn't risk landing in the area."

"Of course they couldn't," Soap grumbled. He looked down at Church, who was sighing and shaking his head.

"Don't ya' just love HQ?" Sinclair rasped.

"They're a pain in the arse sometimes," Soap answered. He then turned back to Wilson. "We'll move as soon as Church is done patching Sinclair up. Be ready to go."

"Yes, sir," Wilson answered, nodding. He turned to the group, and began walking around to the rest of the team, advising them of the current situation and their orders.

()

After fifteen minutes, Church had finished sewing the wound on Sinclair's side. It took both Church and Ghost to help Sinclair back to his feet, but Sinclair still had the coherency to stand on his own with minimal assistance. Soap took the lead, while Alvarez and Wilson brought up the rear. Riley and Roach watched their flanks, and Angela kept in close pace with Soap.

After about half a mile, Ghost had to help keep Church keep Sinclair on his feet. Angela looked over her shoulder worriedly at Sinclair, then jogged forward to Soap.

"Sinclair's looking really bad, sir," she whispered.

"I know," Soap replied quietly. "Not a whole lot we can do about it at this point, luv. If we can get him to the rendezvous point, then we can get him proper medical attention."

"Yeah," Angela murmured. She looked over her shoulder again and sighed slightly. "I've seen him hurt before, but...still jars me every time, you know?"

"Chin up," Soap answered, keeping his gaze forward. "He's a tough bastard. Doubt it's going to be a broken window that does him in."

"Oh he'd be pissed if it was," Angela giggled. "We'd have one angry Sinclair ghost on our hands. Guess I'm just paranoid about the little things."

"Can't say I blame you, luv," Soap chuckled. "Knowing my luck, I'll probably fall out a window or something."


	26. Chapter 26

Looking up at Soap with a weak smile, Angela shook her head.

"Better be careful with what you say," she advised. "You don't want to end up jinxing yourself."

"Bah, I have complete faith in you that you'd save me," Soap chuckled, gently elbowing Angela.

"Yep, I'll just don my Superwoman cape and fly us both out of there," Angela giggled.

Shaking his head and grinning, Soap looked up and narrowed his eyes, scanning the horizon as they neared the rendezvous point. He heard Sinclair cough hoarsely and glanced over his shoulder. The Captain was looking paler by the moment, but he seemed to be keeping in good enough spirits and seemed to be having a rather humorous conversation with Ghost. While it was a bit out of the ordinary for Ghost to have a conversation that was anything but strictly business while on a mission, Soap also knew that it was the best way to keep Sinclair's mind off of his injuries.

Catching Soap's gaze, Ghost nodded slightly and managed a confident grin. He then turned back to Sinclair, still grinning.

"So come on, mate, you were telling me about this supposed Cajun Catfish recipe your mum cooks, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sinclair laughed weakly. "Goddamn stuff's hotter 'n wildfire and it'd probably burn yer' tastebuds off."

"Well then, when we get out of this, sign me up, mate!" Ghost chuckled. "Hey! Roach! What do you say to getting your tastebuds burned off, eh?"

Roach looked over at Ghost and blinked a few times, looking obviously perplexed and a little alarmed.

"Why in the bloody hell would I want to do that?" he cried. "I'm rather fond of my tastebuds, sir."

"Stop being such a wank rag about it," Ghost teased. "It's all in the name of trying new foods."

"I'm not so sure I want to try something that's going to burn my tastebuds off, though."

"Well, pay no attention to him, then," Ghost said with a shrug, looking back to Sinclair. Sinclair was laughing, but his laughter soon turned to a hoarse cough. Gently patting Sinclair on the back, Ghost nodded affirmatively. "Hang in there, mate. Just a bit more, yeah?"

"Yeah, yer' right," Sinclair rasped. "Goddammit 'm gettin' too old fer' this shit."

"Hey!" Church interjected. "Don't even start with that nonsense, sir. Every time I play with my kids I swear I've gotten about ten years older. Little rugrats have more energy than a squirrel on caffeine."

"Ah, shaddup," Sinclair grumbled. "Yer' younger than me."

"By what? A year? Whoop-dee-doo."

"You're both being dramatic bints about this, you know," Ghost chuckled.

"Hey, 've got a bit of a reputation to protect, ya' know," Sinclair replied.

"Don't worry, sir. We still think you're a pretty little princess," Church snickered, trying to keep a straight face as he spoke.

Sinclair gave Church a pointed glare, but he was fighting the urge to grin.

"Hold up," Soap ordered.

Immediately the group stopped, and Soap slowly edged towards the clearing. He could hear the systematic drone of the helicopter blades as they swiped through the air, but at the moment, he couldn't see the chopper. He glanced over at Angela, who was back in the shadows cast by the trees, her blue eyes scanning the skies quickly.

Finally, the helicopter buzzed into view, breaking through the clouds that were hugging the mountain tops. Breathing out a slow sigh of relief, Soap watched as the helicopter began to slowly descend towards the ground, sending waves of air that caused the frost covered grass to ripple. Motioning for the group to move forward, Soap began darting towards the helicopter. He waited as the rest of the group caught up, and then carefully helped Angela into the helicopter, and then waited to assist Church and Ghost as they aided Sinclair up into the chopper.

Though he fought to suppress a grunt of pain, Sinclair winced sharply and gasped, gripping at the floor of the helicopter as he stepped in.

"Come on, mate," Ghost said quietly. "You're almost there."

"Yeah," Sinclair sighed, staggering to a seat and sitting down. He looked up at Ghost, his eyes half-lidded at this point. "Thank you, Ghost."

"Hey, don't mention it, mate," Ghost replied quickly, grinning and winking. He lightly hit Sinclair's shoulder. "Got to keep our Captains in proper working order, otherwise we'll run around like bloody hooligans."

Chuckling weakly, Sinclair set his head back and sighed heavily. He'd lost feeling in his right leg to about the knee a while ago, but it had been pointless to say anything. Gripping the edge of the seat tightly as he felt pressure hit his chest as the helicopter lifted off, Sinclair breathed out slowly through gritted teeth. He'd been through worse, but at the moment, those times eluded him. Glancing over, he saw Angela staring at him with wide, worried eyes. Forcing as confident a grin as he could, Sinclair made a thumbs up gesture before winking. Though she didn't look convinced, Angela nodded and smiled back weakly.

"Sir?"

Hearing Church's voice, Sinclair turned his gaze slowly. Church had gotten the larger medkit that was stored with the helicopter and had already produced what looked like some sort of antiseptic and fresh bandages. Nodding, Sinclair sat up as straight as he could. He closed his eyes for a few brief moments as Church carefully moved away his torn fatigues and shirt.

"Goddammit, sir, since when did you decide to become a bleeder?" Church grumbled.

"Gotta' keep ya' on yer' toes," Sinclair replied, grinning weakly.

Sighing and shaking his head, Church cautiously removed the blood soaked bandages, frowning in concern. The glass must have gone much deeper than he had initially thought, and there was now the concern that internal organs could have been damaged.

"Sir, I know this is going to sound a bit stupid, but does it feel like anything internal got ripped up?" Church asked, looking up at Sinclair. "Obviously we'll get you checked out when we land, but I need to know if I have to start stuffing you with gauze like some sort of Thanksgiving turkey."

The question was enough to make Sinclair open his eyes and look over at Church. He paused, as though considering the question, and shifted slightly in his seat. Finally, he shook his head.

"Nah...feel's like ever'thing's still in one piece. I guess I just got to find out what a goddamn shish-ka-bob feels like."

"And this, sir, is why we do not suggest trying to mimic food. Doesn't usually end well."

() 

The helicopter landed back at the base, and there were already medics waiting to get Sinclair to the operating room. Angela and Alvarez were also quickly escorted away by the medics, even though Alvarez complained and protested every step of the way. Casting a look over her shoulder quickly, Angela looked to Soap, but he was talking to Ghost and Church, undoubtedly trying to figure out how they were going to deal with the backlash from the higher-ups.

Sighing, Angela let herself be led away from the landing pad and to the on-base hospital. Her injury wasn't as bad as the medics were making it sound. And Angela could easily say she'd been through much worse. What really irritated her was that these injuries, all that the team had managed to accumulate, would put their progress back by weeks, if not months.

But they had no choice...

Wasn't like the medics could wave their magic little hospital wands and instantly heal all the injuries.

As she was led down a painfully white hallway and then into a hospital room, Angela felt her stomach involuntarily lurch. She hated hospitals. Always had. They reeked and there was always the cloud of death hanging in them, no matter how sterile the place was and no matter how many times they had been cleaned. It was like the Grim Reaper himself was waiting around every corner, waiting for a single moment of weakness before he would reach out and snuff out the flame of life from its unsuspecting victim.

"Hello, Angela."

Looking up quickly, Angela saw that a tall, rail-thin doctor with just as thin glasses and neatly combed back brown hair had walked into the room. He smiled down at Angela warmly, and Angela wondered how many times he had had to practice that smile to put his patients at ease.

"Hello," Angela mumbled.

"I'm Doctor Darrows and I heard you were on the wrong side of a pistol, correct?"

Nodding slowly, Angela shrugged slightly against the bandages on her shoulder. Wincing, she nodded again.

"Well, let's take a look, then, shall we?"

Frowning slightly, Angela began to obediently pull her jacket and then shirt off. Great, she was now stripping for random men. No, that wasn't true. She was helping this guy do his job, and Angela needed medical attention. There was no need to be such a drama queen.

Sitting down on a rolling chair, Dr. Darrows rolled to the bed that Angela was seated on and adjusted his glasses slightly, peering at the wound as he pulled the bandages away.

"Ouch," he commented. "Lucky it went straight through, though. Relatively small caliber, too."

"Yeah," Angela replied. She looked over at the doctor. "Doctor? How's Sinclair? Do you know?"

"He's...well, it's a good thing you got him here when you did," Dr. Darrows sighed, sitting back slightly. "Lost quite a bit of blood from what I heard, and unfortunately there was still a piece of the glass lodged in him, so it kept tearing away with pretty much any move he made."

"...is he going to make it?" Angela inquired meekly.

"Oh yes," Dr. Darrows answered confidently, smiling. "He's a tough bastard. Kept complaining the entire time we were trying to get him to lay down and actually cooperate."

Angela managed a short laugh, nodding. Yeah, that sounded like Sinclair.

"Okay. Thank you," Angela replied.

"Not a problem," Dr. Darrows said cheerfully. "Now then, we're actually going to need to sew this up a bit more than I initially thought. So you may want to lay back while I get the anesthesia, all right?"

"Sure."

Laying back on the bed, Angela stared up at the ceiling, counting the tiles slowly. She didn't want to tell the doctor, but injections made her incredibly nervous. There was always a chance they were injecting you with something that you hadn't planned on having run around in your system. And then...if that chance became real, well...then you were screwed.

Sighing, Angela squeezed her eyes shut. For the first time in a long time, she began to pray. It was a familiar prayer, and it had pulled her through every tough time this far, so why not now?

()

With a quiet moan, Angela's eyes began to flutter open and she fought to pull her thoughts from the drug-induced fog of the anesthesia. When she stirred, she felt two jaws of pain clamp down firmly on her shoulder, and Angela winced visibly, gritting her teeth.

"Easy there, luv."

Looking over, Angela saw Soap sitting on one of the metal chairs that had been provided for those visiting the hospital room. He had pulled it over to the side of Angela's bed and was eyeing her with a faint smile.

"John?" Angela asked, her voice slurred slightly.

"Oi, you really are out of it, aren't you?" Soap chuckled. He then nodded. "Aye, it's me. You doing all right?"

As she looked around, Angela slowly began to piece together she wasn't in the same room. Shit. They'd gotten her. Shit. They'd injected her with something else.

"Where am I?" Angela demanded weakly, sitting up as quickly as she could.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there," Soap said, standing up and setting a hand on Angela's chest gently. "Relax."

"No," Angela argued. She tried to sit up straight, but her muscles wouldn't respond and it felt like her muscles had been liquified. "No...! This is wrong. The wrong room. Where am I?"

"Angela," Soap said firmly, grasping the sides of Angela's face gently, forcing her gaze to his. "Breathe. You're fine. You're at the base's hospital. Just had to have a bit of minor surgery for your shoulder. Remember?"

Managing a quick, fearful nod, Angela looked at Soap pleadingly. Her panic was starting to ratchet up. Soap still hadn't answered her question as to why the room was different. What if...what if Father had gotten her? Had he taken her back? Had he finally managed to somehow pry her from the government's grasp?

"Where is he?" Angela murmured, her voice trembling.

"Who?" Soap asked, sounding confused. "Angela. Girlie, come on, snap out of it. Who the hell are you talking about?"

"...Abnett," Angela said after a long pause. The name brought a full body shiver, and she gripped Soap's forearms tightly, trying to prove to herself that she wasn't dreaming...or caught in a nightmare.

"Abnett?" Soap asked. "Who the bloody hell is Abnett?"

"Why am I in a different room?"

Soap frowned and blinked, then shook his head and used a hand to smooth back Angela's hair.

"They just had to switch rooms for you," Soap explained, still not quite understanding why the hospital room was such a big deal. "Had to move another patient into the first one. But you're still on the base. You remember, yeah?"

"London, right?"

"There you go," Soap confirmed. He slowly let his hands slide from Angela's face before sitting back in his chair. "Shite, girlie. Thought you were going to try and bolt on me."

"I considered it," Angela answered, looking around quickly. She scanned the room. Nobody else was there. Her gaze fell on the doorway to the small bathroom and Angela felt her heart begin to jackhammer in her chest. The darkness was only mild, but it was enough that somebody could use it as cover. Just enough to get the jump on her. And if she was drugged...

"What's wrong?"

"What did they inject me with?" Angela asked, never taking her gaze from the bathroom doorway.

"What did they...? You mean the doctors? Probably anesthesia. Had to knock you out before they started sewing you up, you know?" Frowning again, Soap stood up and then sat on the edge of the hospital bed. "Angela. Angela, look at me."

Reluctantly, Angela turned her gaze to Soap. She could feel her thoughts starting to finally fit back together, her memories returning, but she still couldn't trust that she was completely safe. Not yet.

"What the hell is wrong?" Soap asked lowly, looking at Angela closely.

"I...I have a problem...with anesthesia," Angela finally began to explain. "It...it does terrible things to my mind half the time. It's like I'm hyper-sensitive to their effects or something."

"What? Are you hallucinating?" Soap inquired.

"No, not really. I mean, not this time." Angela sighed heavily, then leaned her head against Soap's shoulder. He began to gently rub her back, feeling her body occasionally quiver. "It's difficult to explain. I'm sorry, sir. Sorry I acted like such a...freak."

"First up, enough with the 'sir' shite," Soap replied with a grin. "You've only got to call me that when the situation requires it. Second, you hardly acted like a freak. You started to, I believe the phrase is, freak me out a little, however, you hardly acted like a freak."

"Thank you," Angela said, smiling faintly. She finally looked up at Soap. "How long was I out?"

"A few hours."

"How's Sinclair?"

"Southern bastard pulled through. He's already complaining about the food and everything," Soap chuckled. "I personally don't see what his problem is with the food. It's better than the rubbish they try to feed us in those rations."

"Yeah, but if the food that he's eating doesn't register on some sort of heat scale, then Sinclair's not happy," Angela explained, laughing. "His 'normal' food consists of stuff that could probably melt the asphalt out of the streets."

"Shite," Soap breathed, shaking his head. "And here I thought I was tough."

"You are, just maybe not necessarily in the food department."

Looking at Angela, Soap smiled faintly and hooked a finger under Angela's chin before pulling her close and kissing her softly. Angela made a quiet, happy sigh and leaned into the kiss, her hand lightly tracing across Soap's jawline. Gently gripping the back of Angela's neck, Soap kissed her again, this time a little more insistently, and Angela instinctively clutched at his shoulder, the jacket he was wearing bunching up in her grip. Reluctantly, Soap pulled back slightly, leaning his forehead against Angela's.

"I hope you know you scared me a bit there, girlie," he whispered. "Thought that goddamn Russian had you there."

"Nah," Angela replied softly. "I just got thrown off a bit because I didn't have my laptop to beat him upside the head with."

Chuckling, Soap kissed Angela for a third time, carefully combing back her hair. After savoring the moment, he leaned back, grinning faintly at Angela. Angela was blushing furiously, but seemed rather pleased with herself, and she finally sat up straight, stretching her arms over her head. Soap watched her, his grin never fading.

"So...how mad are the higher ups at us?" Angela finally asked.

"Well, they're sure as hell not as happy as they could be," Soap replied, frowning slightly. "However, there's word that the intel we got was too far out of date, so we basically walked into a hornet's nest and managed to walk, well, run out of it without any casualties."

"Out of date intel, go figure," Angela grumbled.

"So they're at least happy with the fact that we managed to cause some trouble without getting ourselves killed."

"They ought to be," Angela huffed, crossing her arms. "I keep trying to tell them that they need to double check that shit before sending people out."

"Aye, that may be the case, but then we may miss an opportunity if we're too busy double-checking every scrap of intel that we get," Soap reasoned. He wasn't exactly pleased with the answer that he had received, and had had more than a few choice words for the fact that 'out of date intel' had almost cost them a Captain and injured others on the team, but he also knew that they didn't have much choice, either.

"I know," Angela grumbled, still looking rather cross about the whole thing. "But still...I don't appreciate being punched around and shot up by some gun-wielding giant just because Bob over in the intel department couldn't be bothered to check the facts one more time."


	27. Chapter 27

Within a few hours Angela had been released to walk around the base, and as she left her hospital room, she could hear Sinclair arguing with one of the orderlies, but he sounded like he had everything under control. At least, for the most part. Exiting the med bay, Angela glanced down the hallway that led away from the med bay and to another part of the building that was currently under construction. The hallway was dark, and a couple of of plastic sheets hung in a doorway that was currently missing its doors, and they slowly swayed in the cold breeze that rippled down the hallway.

Taking in a long, shaking breath, Angela shrugged, wincing at the pull of the stitches on her shoulder, and darted out the door and into the cold air. She looked up at the grey clouds, then frowned. She really hated anesthesia. She knew it was necessary, that it dulled pain that the human body could otherwise not stand, but...what it did to her mind. What it did to her reaction time.

...Angela hated it.

"How's boss man?"

Her attention snapping to Alvarez, Angela managed a faint smile.

"He's raising Hell in there."

"Sounds about right," Alvarez laughed. He gave Angela a pointed look. "And how're you?"

"I'm fine. Had worse, you know? But what about you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Alvarez muttered. "I'm fine. No worse for wear or whatever. Just fuckin' pissed one of those assholes got me."

There were a few moments of drawn out silence, and then Angela glanced over to the main building before back to Alvarez.

"How pissed off is HQ?"

"Pretty fuckin' pissed," Alvarez sighed. He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. After lighting one and taking in a long drag, Alvarez looked back at Angela. "They really tore your little Scottish boy toy a new one."

Momentarily taken aback, Angela blinked quickly...and then promptly kicked Alvarez in the shin. Yelping, Alvarez staggered back.

"Hey, hey! Easy with the shoes there, amiga! Goddamn…"

"He's not a 'boy toy,' you ignorant numbnut," Angela snapped.

"Uh-huh. Saw you two making little fishy-lip smooches in your hospital room," Alvarez teased, taking another step back, anticipating another kick to the shins.

"...you saw us?" Angela asked, grimacing slightly.

"Yeah, I saw you," Alvarez chuckled, taking another long drag at the cigarette. "Real cute, too. All snuggly and cozy."

"...fuck," Angela grumbled, her gaze falling.

"What? You think I'm gonna' give you hell for it?" Alvarez queried, sounding surprised.

"Well…no. But you know that the higher-ups aren't going to appreciate it. And it's not exactly the...smartest move I could make," Angela muttered.

"Eh, yeah. They're not going to be really thrilled about it, but you know, I'm not going to be postin' flyers about it. And I don't think anybody else around here is, either."

"Hope so," Angela sighed, looking across the base. "I really don't want to get him or myself in trouble."

"He's got a lot more to worry about from HQ at the moment," Alvarez replied, tossing away the remains of the cigarette. "Could probably use a little cheering up from you."

Alvarez promptly got another kick to the shin.

()

"How you doing there, mate?"

Looking up at Ghost from the paperwork that had been sent to them, Soap sighed heavily and leaned back in the chair. His leg was sore from being stabbed with a pen, but it had been tightly bandaged and was nothing that wouldn't heal in good time. Ghost looked a bit bedraggled and tired, but still had a smug grin on his face. His dark hair was tousled and spiked in various degrees, and just as dark circles were under his eyes.

"My ears are still ringing," Soap muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He quirked an eyebrow and looked Ghost over. "You look like hell. Ever consider taking a nap?"

"A little rough to sleep after a mission like this," Ghost replied, shrugging off-handedly. He gave Soap an apologetic look. "You know how that is, sir."

"Aye. ...I do," Soap murmured, mindlessly sliding aside one of the papers.

"Any word on Captain Sinclair?"

"Last I heard he threatened to break a window out of the med bay if they didn't release him," Soap answered with a grin. When Ghost seemed surprised, Soap shook his head. "He put up a pretty big fuss, and they released him. But he's going to have to miss out on some of the fun for a while."

"Let me guess," Ghost chuckled. "He was just thrilled."

"Like you wouldn't believe." Frowning, Soap sat there for a few minutes in silence, then shook his head again. "I should've just shot that Russian bitch. Gone for the knee."

"I think your mind was elsewhere, though, mate," Ghost reasoned carefully.

His blue eyes snapped up to Ghost, and Soap took in a very slow breath. He knew that the Lieutenant was right, but it didn't make him feel any better about the situation. Made him feel worse about it, if he was going to be perfectly honest with himself.

"That Pirogov bastard hits like a train," Ghost continued, rolling one shoulder. "Tried to twist my neck shut at one point."

"Glad to see he didn't," Soap answered, grinning faintly. He sighed and looked over the papers strewn across the table. "We have to mobilize pretty quickly. Going to try and intercept those launchers on a transport ship. This time they don't care whether or not we actually get the damn things, they just don't want our little terrorist friends running off with them."

"So we're going back out on a boat. Bloody fantastic," Ghost muttered.

"Oh it gets better. Guess who gets to come along?"

"Your mum."

Soap promptly wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at Ghost, who laughed as the paper harmlessly bounced off his chest.

"Guess again, smartass. Out of all of us, he probably hates the water the most."

"Oh joy," Ghost chuckled. "Alvarez?"

"Aye. We're setting charges to sink that tin can, and we're going to need support. We've also got a drone to help scope out the optimal charge locations."

"That going to be a job for your girlfriend, then?"

This time Soap paused and he gave Ghost a level look.

"Don't call her that," the Captain said quietly.

"Well, what do you want me to call her, then? Your blonde bombshell? Blue-eyed beauty?" Ghost leaned forward. "Your little snog-muffin?"

Though he had been trying to keep a straight face, the last question had Soap stifling a laugh and covering the lower half of his face with his hand to hide the grin that was threatening to break his stoic expression.

"No, Ghost," he laughed quietly. "But I'd rather not draw attention to ourselves. Particularly her."

"Why not? She can handle herself, yeah?"

"Yeah, but I'm not entirely sure how happy her American superiors would be to find out she's gettin' a bit too cozy with a SAS Captain."

Sighing, Ghost crossed his arms, then shook his head quickly.

"Well, fuck it, mate. Not like anybody's going to go making a big deal about it, and unless you decide to shag each other in the middle of the Palace, I think your little secret's probably safe."

Soap didn't bother stifling his laughter that time. After a few moments, though, Ghost cleared his throat and looked back down at the papers on the desk. He frowned, then turned his gaze back to Soap.

"Kind of different for them to be putting somebody who's injured out on the field so quickly, though, isn't it?" Ghost asked. "She got shot and Sinclair got cut up with some glass, but they're throwing her back out on the field. No offense to Sinclair. I saw that injury, and I wouldn't want that to happen to me."

"I thought it was a little odd, too," Soap replied. "But the orders were direct. And supposedly the helicopter's supposed to keep enough distance from the ship that Angela's going to be the safest out of all of us."

Sighing and shaking his head, Ghost leaned back from the desk slightly. Something seemed off, but he wasn't in a place to question orders. For now, none of them were.

()

The helicopter buzzed through the softly falling snow, sending the white flakes swirling into the dark grey skies. Alvarez shifted in his seat, looking rather cross about the whole ordeal. Beside him sat Angela, who was already going through a few preliminary tests on her laptop to ensure the connection quality she had with the drone, and beside her sat Church. Across from them, Ghost and Soap sat in the rather cold seats of the helicopter. Church leaned over and looked at the computer screen, then pretended to look horrified and then gave Angela a disapproving look.

"Angelinka Jasinski! What in God's name are you looking at? With a government computer, no less!"

Immediately catching on, Alvarez leaned over and made a low whistle.

"Madre de dios," Alvarez said, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't know you women were so flexible."

Soap and Ghost exchanged a wordless glance. Angela seemed to be a little perturbed with her compatriots' antics, and she turned to Church first, pointing a finger in an accusatory manner.

"You are a married man and I will tell your wife on you and I hope you step on five Lego blocks when you get home." Not waiting for a response, Angela then turned to Alvarez quickly, her accusing expression never faltering. "And you! I will tell your mother, grandmother, and aunt on you."

"You can't contact them all the way out here," Alvarez said, rolling his eyes. He then paused and frowned, looking at Angela. "Can you?"

"Try me," Angeal said steely.

"Hey, any space over there for me to sit?" Alvarez asked to Soap and Ghost.

The two quickly exchanged glances, looked at Angela, who was already starting to fold the laptop closed, and then both Soap and Ghost tried to stretch out as much as they could along the seats.

"Don't think so, mate," Ghost commented, looking back and forth quickly.

"Aye, she's already foldin' that laptop like she's about to take somebody's head off," Soap noted, motioning to Angela.

"I'm not about to hurt this poor thing…," Angela said sweetly. "I'll just wait until we're over the water and throw Alvarez in."

"You better not," Alvarez grumbled, scooting closer to Angela and gripping at the seat. "I will take you with me, one way or the other."

"What's with you and water, Alvarez?" Ghost asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Was born in the desert, raised in the desert, work best in the desert," Alvarez responded curtly.

"You can swim, though," Church pointed out. "You're a pretty damn good swimmer, too."

"Yeah, because I want to live to see the desert again."

"Hey, I'm sure if you ask the higher-ups real nice-like, they'll toss your ass back into the Middle East," Church replied with a grin.

"Eh...go fuck yourself," Alvarez grumbled, leaning against his seat.

"You two make such a cute couple," Ghost with a grin.

A blare of static and then the pilot's voice warning them that they were nearing the drop off point for the boarding team cut Alvarez off before he could make any further comments. As the helicopter began to fly lower, Angela opened the laptop back up, feeling her injured shoulder twinge painfully. They had patched her up well enough, and it certainly wasn't a life-threatening injury, but it still hurt every now and then.

But now wasn't the time to whine or ask for Motrin. The drone was locked down to the floor of the helicopter, but as the boarding team exited the helicopter, Angela unfastened the buckles. After a brief moment of pause, she quickly yanked her gloves off and undid her necklace. She removed one of the pendants, and as she hauled the drone to the edge of the helicopter where Alvarez and Ghost were waiting to take it from her, Angela handed the pendant to Soap.

"Hold onto this!" she yelled, trying to make sure she was heard over the roar of the helicopter.

Looking at Angela with an incredulous expression, Soap started to ask why in the hell she had chosen now, of all times, to play friendship necklace swap. But there was something in Angela's expression. A look of both pleading and firm stubbornness, that told Soap she was apt to throw it at him if he didn't take it.

"Alright! I will!" Soap replied, snatching the pendant from Angela's hand.

Nodding, Angela sat back in the helicopter and turned her attention back to the laptop as the helicopter rose back into the air, sending flurries of snow around the boarding team. Frowning, Soap looked back down to the pendant, but before he could say anything, Church suddenly elbowed him lightly.

"Don't lose that," he said.

Soap started to ask about it, but they were pressed for time. So, muttering a curse under his breath, he quickly added the pendant to the chain that held his dog tags. He'd have time to ask Angela about the damn thing later. He glanced over and realized that Alvarez was giving him an odd stare, but the instant Soap gave the order to move, Alvarez's attention was diverted.

As they moved away from the drop off point, they could hear the low hum of the drone as it started up. The helicopter was already high above them, the sound almost drowned out by the icy, whistling wind.

It took them less time than they had anticipated to reach the vantage point that overlooked where the ship was docked. Crouching down, Soap glanced through the thermal scope attached to his rifle. The ship appeared to be sparsely manned, though there was nothing saying that the soldiers he could see were the poor sods that had to be outside in this cold while their compatriots stayed nice and warm inside the ship.

"How many, sir?" Church whispered.

"Counting...looks like eleven total on the topside of the ship."

"Only eleven?" Alvarez repeated.

"Rest of 'em are probably keeping as warm as they can down below," Soap replied, lowering his rifle. He looked over at Ghost and Alvarez, who were the ones carrying the charges. "If we can keep the kills quiet, we may be able to set the charges and their friends who are inside the ship are going to get a damn cold bath."

"Is this where I make some sort of bad joke about putting the bad guys on ice?" Alvarez asked.

"No," Ghost interjected with a low groan.

()


	28. Chapter 28

Leaning back in the chair, listening to the legs creak under his weight, Andrei Bortsov breathed out slowly, plumes of smoke rising from his nostrils, courtesy of the cigarette he had been slowly smoking for the past fifteen minutes. Glancing around the crowded comm room, Andrei let his gaze flick from computer screen to computer screen, and though there was little chance he would notice any difference, it was at least a distraction from the constant yammering of the other soldiers in the room.

While the room provided some relief from the cold, it was all part of the overall plan to lure the enemy into a false sense of security. Andrei wasn't sure where Rodion was getting his information, but so far it had proven to be right...time and time again. And Andrei certainly wasn't going to complain, but it did raise a few suspicions about his compatriot. However, that said, Andrei was not so stupid to voice such suspicions. While he was far stronger than Rodion, he didn't have any of the anger and venom that the other carried with him.

"Sir!" one of the soldiers called, pointing to a computer screen, which was, from what Andrei could tell, registering motion detection on the bow of the ship. "They're here."

"Order all troops to hold back. We don't want to give our...friends a greeting just yet."

As the soldier relayed the orders, Andrei extinguished the cigarette in the too full ash tray on the nearby table as he stood up. He picked up the AK-47 that had been leaning against his chair and glanced around the room. The soldiers were all getting ready, but they all knew there was no hurry. They still had a bit of time…

"We want them to get as far onto the boat as possible," Andrei stated flatly, reiterating the orders. "When they do, we circle around and capture. Kill only if necessary."

()

As her hands flew across the keyboard, Angela dared a quick glance out the window of the helicopter. She saw nothing but white and grey clouds, but quickly turned her focus back to the computer. The drone was buzzing around the ship, and for now, she was trying to keep it covered within the clouds and flurries of snow while still maintaining some semblance of visibility.

"Ship's deader than my aunt's taste in fashion," Alvarez muttered.

"Songbird, you seeing anything?"

"Nothing. A few guys at the back, but the guys on the front went back into the main hold of the ship."

"This doesn't seem...too easy?" Church asked quietly into the comm. He and Ghost had boarded the ship at the back, and for now, were taking cover behind tarp and snow covered cargo. "I'm not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it's like they're letting us on here."

"Aye," Soap muttered back, daring a quick glance from behind the cover of a weighted down box. "Give them a bit. See if they just needed a break from the cold."

"I'd like a fucking break from the cold," Alvarez grumbled, shifting his weight slightly as he adjusted the rifle against his shoulder.

"Alvie, shut up," Church snapped. "Keep talking and they'll shoot us like one-winged ducks."

"Songbird?"

"Just a few guys milling around. Doesn't look like they're really worried about security. Church is right, you may want to-" Angela stopped mid-sentence, her gaze momentarily frozen on the feedback from the drone. "Shit! Get to cover. Your six is getting crowded and fast!"

Glancing over his shoulder, Soap saw what appeared to be soldiers climbing up and over the edge of the ship. Looking back up towards the middle of the ship, where the charges were supposed to be placed, Soap felt his breath catch in his throat, the icy air biting at his lungs. More soldiers had joined their compatriots along the catwalks that rimmed the communication tower of the ship. And there was no doubting that they were ready for, and looking for, combat.

"Soap! Get out of there! They're right on you!" Angela practically screamed over the comm. "I can try to help you get a path to your nine, but Church and Ghost are almost pinned down!"

At the other end of the ship, there was the unmistakable crack of gunfire. Gritting his teeth, Soap glanced over at Alvarez, who was pressed against one of the boxes as firmly as he could, trying to take as much cover as possible. There was a stack of boxes between them and the soldiers, but between the soldiers on the catwalks and the soldiers flanking them, the boxes would be little more than splinters, smoke, and provide as much cover as tissue paper.

"Get out of here?!" Alvarez hissed. "Is she out of her fucking mind?!"

Soap said nothing. His mind was racing as he tried to figure out a way to get himself and the rest of the team off this damn, metal tomb. But the soldiers were drawing closer, despite the combined best efforts of both Soap and Alvarez to keep them at bay. The gunfire from the enemies on the catwalks made any attempt at repelling the enemies to their rear a risk to getting a bullet, or one or fifteen, to the back of the head.

"Shite!" Soap hissed, reloading his assault rifle.

"Ghost! Your left! Your left!" Angela yelled, trying to keep the drone steady as the winds whipped up. The drone tipped and bowed, making aiming the small, mounted machine gun almost as dangerous to Ghost and Church as it was to the enemy soldiers.

"Bloody fuck!" Ghost snarled, firing off two quick bursts of gunfire at an oncoming soldier.

He and Church weren't having to deal with enemies on their six, but the seemingly constant rain of gunfire coming down on them from the catwalk and then to their right made moving from their cover nothing short of suicide. Looking up, Ghost looked at the drone as it circled around as Angela guided it away from the enemy fire that was trying to take it out of the air.

"Soap! Can you hold them off-"

"They're right on us, Songbird! There's no holding these bastards off!"

Her heartbeat was pounding in her head, and Angela could hear the pilot of the helicopter grumbling curses under his breath in between listening to the updates as Soap shouted them over the comm. The pilot guided the helicopter around in a wide circle, far enough away from the ship for Angela to see any real details, but close enough to still see the outline of the metal behemoth.

But Angela could see the details. She was desperately trying to keep the drone steady while firing at enemy soldiers, and then guide it away fast enough to keep the drone intact. Already a few bullets had pinged against the metal body of the airborne support, and already a preliminary error had began to buzz on the laptop.

"Songbird! We can't get these guys off our nine as long as those bastards on the catwalk keep trying to take potshots at us!" Ghost shouted.

"Moving the drone!" Angela replied. "But it's probably already smoking by this point. Try to keep them from shooting this flying tin can."

"We're trying to keep ourselves from getting shot!" Church yelled.

Frowning, Angela set her jaw and guided the drone back to the rear of the ship. She could see the soldiers on the catwalk, and she took aim at them. Again, the drone bucked and bowed under the abuse from the wind, but Angela managed to get a few bursts of gunfire. She saw two soldiers collapse, but they weren't dead. Just injured.

"Dammit," Angela hissed under her breath. She glared at the computer screen, focusing fiercely on the display. As if she could help guide and keep the drone safe through sheer will. "How the hell did so many guys manage to-"

"Shit, shit, shit!" the pilot suddenly yelled. "They found us!"

The helicopter suddenly swerved sharply, and Angela gripped the laptop tightly as she was yanked to the side of her seat. Beneath her feet, she could hear bullets cracking against the bottom of the helicopter, leaving the metallic ringing echoing through the body of the chopper. Another alarm suddenly blared from the laptop, and Angela forced her weight against her shoulder, wincing at the stab of pain that shot through it. Looking at the computer screen, Angela felt her blood go cold.

The feedback screen was completely black, save for the words, "Connection Lost".

"No…," Angela hissed, frantically keying through a few command lines, desperately trying to re-establish any sort of connection with the drone. Even if it was just video. Even if she couldn't get the gun back online. Even if she could just...see what was going on.

"Songbird-"

"Soap, They got the drone-" Angela yelled hurriedly, glancing at the map of the ship. Maybe she could guide them off the thing via audio.

"Songbird-"

"You won't be able-"

"Songbird! They-"

"Surrender, you brazen interlopers!"

Angela froze at the sound of the new, foreign voice. It was definitely Russian, no doubting the accent, but it was close. Too close.

"Soap…?" Angela asked hoarsely, her voice barely registering as a whisper.

"Sorry, luv," Soap murmured. "They got us."

Feeling her pulse suddenly ratchet up, Angela buzzed stared at the computer screen, the empty feedback window seemed more damning than before.

Back on the ship, Soap glared up at the man who had strode out onto the catwalk. Black hair, wide shoulders, and taller than almost all the soldiers there, Soap recognized him from the photos in the debriefing.

Andrei Bortsov.

Angela was still trying to talk to Soap, trying to give him advice that was absolutely useless at this point. Unfortunately, by this point, her voice was little more than comforting.

There was no mistaking it now. Andrei and his men had been waiting for them. There was no way that that many soldiers could have flanked them so quickly and so efficiently without somebody having known what was going on. Soap was already running through the different possibilities of how this plan had gone to Hell in a handbasket, but right now, none of them really mattered.

What mattered was all the damn guns pointed at them. Soap heard one of the enemy soldiers behind him smirk and mutter something in Russian to his friend, who seemed to find whatever had been said just as funny. Glaring down at snow-covered metal floor of the ship, Soap turned his gaze back up to Andrei. The man was eyeing them like a hawk, and then his gaze flicked down as soldiers walked a very frustrated and angry Ghost and Church across the ship and into view of Andrei.

Both Ghost and Church had been stripped of their weapons, and both had their hands over their heads. Ghost shot Soap a look, and all Soap could do was shake his head slightly before turning his attention back to Andrei when he heard the man speak again.

"I will commend you four on your...bravery," Andrei said loudly. Though he was using a speaker system, his voice still seemed to boom through the speakers. "Even if it was probably the stupidest display of bravery I have seen in my life. I-"

Andrei suddenly stopped as another soldier approached him. Soap watched them closely, and though he knew there was no way he could possibly hope to hear what was being said, the alternative was to focus on the barrel of the assault rifle pressed between his shoulder blades. It was just a matter of choosing the lesser of two evils.

"Soap!"

Angela's sudden shriek in Soap's ear made him wince momentarily, but whatever pain he felt from the sudden stab of noise in his ear was overridden by the unmistakable panic in Angela's voice. Before he could ask what had happened, Soap heard the loud boom and he turned his gaze back to where their drop off point had been. Barely above the treeline, he could see the helicopter suddenly jerk erratically, smoke billowing out of the now badly damaged tail.

"...fuck no," Alvarez mumbled, watching as the helicopter suddenly dipped sharply out of view.

Watching with what appeared to be mild interest, Andrei glanced back down at the captured soldiers. Their expressions, or at least, the forced attempt to mask them, told Andrei all he needed to know. There would be no rescue. There would be no help.

"I do apologize for the loss of your helicopter," Andrei called down mockingly. "However, I am going to need you four to stay for quite some time, and I believe that helicopter would have only been a nuisance at this rate."


	29. Chapter 29

()

Shrieking, Angela fought to cling to the seatbelt, reflexively crushing the laptop against her chest. She could hear the pilot yelling frantically as alarms blared from the dashboard and the helicopter bucked rebelliously against his guidance. Looking out the window, her vision blurred with panic, Angela could see a mad repeat of snow, sky, snow, sky, with the snow growing closer each passing second.

"We're goin' down!" the pilot screamed over the alarms.

The nose of the helicopter slammed into the snow, sending it flipping over onto its side, the blades cracking madly against the snow. Angela gritted her teeth as she was yanked like a rag doll against the seatbelt, the belts crushing against her shoulders and waist. She could hear glass shattering, metal twisting and groaning, and the pained cry of the pilot.

The helicopter violently swerved to the right in the thick snow, the stubs of rotors still whirling, kicking up small geysers of snow. The body buckled and tore open, snow filling up and stopping the two pieces. Gasping and trying to get her bearings, Angela struggled to unbuckle the seatbelt. The soldiers would be coming. They wouldn't want survivors…

"Hey…! Hey!" she called as loudly as she dared, crawling through the ice-flecked snow.

She could hear the pilot groan, but he didn't answer.

"Shit," Angela hissed. She shoved the laptop into the backpack it had been transported in and began frantically clawing away some of the snow that was blocking the way to the cockpit. "C'mon, c'mon!"

Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, squinting against the cold and smoke, Angele continued to paw away the snow. So far, she couldn't hear anything or see anything, but the winds were starting to pick up once again. Soon, she wouldn't be able to hear them until they were practically standing on top of her.

"...fuck me."

Daring a quick look inside the smashed cockpit, Angela could see the pilot slowly trying to unbuckle himself from the seat. Redoubling her efforts and flinging aside armfuls of snow, Angela reached into the cockpit.

"Hurry!" she hissed. "We need to get out of here!"

"...fuck...my side. My goddamn head," the pilot groaned as he rolled out of the seat.

Angela could see his coat was already starting to show spots of blood seeping through, but there was little that could be done about that for now. They had to get somewhere safe, and then they had to get the rest of the team back.

God damn it all, where had it gone wrong?

"You need to go," the pilot coughed, looking up at Angela. "There's no bloody way you'll be able to get out of here with me as dead weight."

"Shut the fuck up and come on!" Angela pleaded, waving her hand. "We can get a head start on them and put some distance between us."

"You'll be able to put a lot more distance if you go now!" the pilot snapped back.

"Listen, you biscuit-biting bastard, if you don't move your ass, I'm going to drag you the whole way!"

The pilot gave Angela an incredulous look before making a scoff that turned into a weak cough.

"Damn, woman, you didn't have to get so violent all of a sudden." Even so, the pilot crawled towards Angela, grasping her hand and staggering out of the wreckage.

"Okay, okay, here we go," Angela said, trying to keep her voice as steady as possible. The pilot make a sharp hiss as Angela helped him put his arm over her shoulders, but didn't say anything else. "Can you walk?"

"Think so. Goddamn side's smashed up, and pretty sure I'm not going to remember my own damn name after this headache wears off."

"Well, you're name's Harris, right?" Angela asked, already starting to pant from the effort of wading through the snow.

"Yeah, Vernon Harris," the pilot replied with a nod.

"Well, we got that fixed, then. I'll remember your name for you and when you can't remember, I'll just tell you."

"Fine. But what if you're not around, then?"

"That's what sticky-notes were invented for."

"You've just got a plan for everything, don't you?"

"Except for how to get out of here," Angela replied, glancing over her shoulder again. There was a godawful ringing in her ears that wouldn't quit, but she swore she could hear the faint sounds of dogs barking. "At least, how to get out of here in a timely manner."

Nodding and wincing, Harris struggled to tromp through the thick snow. It was still lightly packed, and they both sank up to almost their knees as they forced their way through. Even past the ringing in her ears, Angela could hear Harris wheezing roughly. She quietly hoped that his lung wasn't punctured, but even if it wasn't, neither of them could run fast enough to save their lives.

"Need to keep going," Angela muttered, suppressing a cough as the icy air coated her throat. "We just gotta' figure out a way to throw them off this obvious trail we're leaving."

"I don't think we're-"

Jerking to a stop suddenly, Harris looked over his shoulder in panic.

"Did you hear that?"

"What?"

Then she heard it. Snowmobiles. They weren't wasting any time.

"Shit…! They're coming! Run!"

"Into the trees! Into the trees!" Angela gasped.

Half running, half tripping, the two struggled to get to the denser part of the forest. Her breath reduced to ragged pants, Angela almost fell into a tree, but managed to catch herself enough to borderline throw herself into the denser foliage. Surprisingly, Harris wasn't far behind, though he was coughing harshly and pain was clearly written on his expression. Managing to stagger up beside Angela, he gave her a hopeless look.

"They're still going to find us," he wheezed roughly. "Even if they can't get those damned snowmobiles through here, they sure as hell can put bullets through here."

Frowning and swallowing hard, trying to get rid of the icy burn along her throat, Angela looked around quickly. Harris wasn't exactly in the best of shape to be running through snow and forest, much less trying to take down anybody. She was armed with a pistol and that was it. Well, unless she wanted to try her hand at laptop-to-head combat again.

Stopping, Angela glanced down at her pistol, then shrugged under the weight of the backpack.

"I've got an idea. ...did Soap ever tell you how he and I first met?" she queried, unholstering the pistol.

Harris just stared at Angela with absolute confusion.

()

Pacing back and forth slowly, Andrei glanced down at his cell phone, checking the time. He knew that Pirogov was going to be expecting an update soon, and he hadn't heard back from the retrieval team. Their orders hadn't been that difficult. Retrieve anything of use or possible interest and kill any survivors. Given the angle that the helicopter hit, they shouldn't have even needed to waste the bullets.

Glancing over at their new prisoners, he allowed a faint ghost of a grin cross his face. Yezhov would be pleased to have a long "talk" with the soldiers that had wrecked half their base and caused her numerous headaches. Not to mention Yezhov's daughter's birthday had been yesterday, and missing that to order irritable men around to try and make up for the slack that had been created had only put her in a worse mood.

Lighting another cigarette, Andrei sighed and looked out a window across the ice-flecked waters.

"Interesting, isn't it?" he said slowly, deliberately letting his words hang in the air for the prisoners to hear. "We both fight for our homes, and yet we're both so far from them."

"Thought you'd feel right at home in the cold."

Turning to the voice, Andrei's gaze glanced between the prisoners before falling on the one that had spoken. Already, a soldier was prodding the man in the back with the barrel of his rifle, but Andrei waved a hand dismissively. The soldiers were at gunpoint, outnumbered, hands zip-tied behind their backs, and stripped of all weapons.

They weren't going anywhere.

"They call you...Alvarez, am I right?" Andrei asked, striding over to the dark-haired, tanned soldier.

Of course, the soldier didn't answer. He didn't have to. His name tag had been enough.

"You think simply because it's cold that I feel at home?" Andrei continued, motioning around the cold control room of the ship. He then laughed quietly and scoffed. "Perhaps if I was a polar bear, I might. But then I'd also feel right at home eating you and your comrades."

Alvarez gave Andrei a disgusted sneer, but again, said nothing. The same soldier glanced at Andrei, and this time, Andrei nodded. The soldier lunged forward, grabbing Alvarez by the throat and head. The other prisoners jerked in response, one, the one named Church, actually starting to get to his feet.

All it took was the sound of rifles being aimed, each and every one of them right at the prisoners, for them to stand down. Andrei took a long drag of his cigarette, eyeing Alvarez with a smirk.

"No, I am not at home, here. My home is warm, I have a nice television, very comfortable, old couch, a little dog that doesn't shut up." Slowly, Andrei began to grind the still burning cigarette against the side of Alvarez's neck. Though he tried to suppress it, Alvarez's growl of pain was audible, and Andrei tilted his head to the side, watching as the man's face contorted in pain. "So, I do not appreciate the idea that just because it is colder than the grave I will put you in that I am at home."

Andrei's phone suddenly rang, and he quickly stood up, motioning for the soldier to release Alvarez.

_"Report?"_

_"They...they got away, sir."_

_ "They what!?"_ Shock and fury momentary clouded his thoughts, and Andrei glanced over at the prisoners, realizing they'd heard his outburst. Forcing himself to regain, and maintain, his composure, Andrei cleared his throat slowly. _"And how did they manage to do that? And who is 'they'?"_

_"The pilot and that woman. Their informations specialist. They...stole one of the snowmobiles. She hit Petrov with a laptop. He's just now regaining consciousness."_

_ "She...hit him...with a laptop?"_ Andrei repeated in disbelief. _"Enough to knock him unconscious?"_

_ "Yes, sir."_

_ "...did you at least shoot her?"_

_ "Yes, sir. But she and the pilot got away."_

_ "For all of your sakes, I am going to strongly suggest you find them and catch them. Yezhov and Pirogov will be meeting us and I will leave it to the lot of you to explain why a pilot and a bitch with a laptop managed to escape when I captured four, armed soldiers."_

_ "Yes, sir! Yes, sir!"_

Borderline crushing the "End" button under his thumb, Andrei turned back to the prisoners, all four of whom were staring at him intently. He knew that they were aware what the conversation had been about, but none of them were known to be fluent in Russian. Particularly Andrei's dialect. So, save for his one outburst, everything had appeared under control.

"Lock them up," Andrei said, motioning to the prisoners, any sense of leniency long since gone.

As they were being led away, Alvarez grinned and muttered.

"Hey, Soap...remember how you and your little blondie met?"

Frowning, Soap glanced over at Alvarez, trying to wordlessly tell him to shut his mouth before he was used as an ashtray again. Then he caught Alvarez's knowing, smug-as-hell grin, and Soap let it slide, turning his gaze back to the front.

"Good one, girlie," he murmured, grinning inwardly.

()

The snowmobile's engine screamed in response to the speed that was being demanded of it, but Angela refused to relent. The thing sure couldn't outrun a bullet, and their only ally at this point was distance. To his credit, Harris had volunteered to act as both shield and gunner, and had managed to get rid of at least two of the enemy soldiers after them. Even so, Angela could hear his labored breathing and wondered just how much more jostling and punishment his already injured body could take. At this speed, if he fell off, he was as good as dead.

And as the treeline grew closer, it only became more imperative that he was able to stay on the snowmobile until they were far, far away. Or the thing ran out of gas. Whichever happened first.

"Harris?!"

"They're still after us! Have to say, though, nice shot with that laptop! I thought Captain MacTavish was making that shit up about you hitting him with the thing!"

Despite the frigid cold that seemed to be slicing through her skin and right to the bone, Angela felt her face flush. Good god, how many people knew about that?

"He told you?!"

"Well, I just heard it second-hand, but it was such a ridiculous tactic I didn't think it was true!"

Saying nothing, Angela leaned forward slightly. They were almost to the treeline, and though she could hear the other snowmobiles behind them, the roars only intermittently overpowered by the crack of gunfire, once they were in the trees, they'd have a bit more safety. It was rather difficult to try and steer and aim at the same time while going at speeds that one wrong blink could have you twisted around a tree.

Harris had an arm tightly around her waist, and Angela was sitting as close to the front of the thing as she could without throwing them both off balance. The added weight had slowed them down, but if they could just make it to the trees…

A bullet flashed by, the moment of white hot heat earning a curse from Angela, her grip on the handlebars intensifying. There was no losing her focus on this one. Already, she could hear the familiar prayer being recited in the back of her mind, and for all the bad memories it housed, it still managed to put a sense of calm through her.

"Hold on!" she yelled.

Harris gripped her a bit tighter in response, and within a moment, they were in the first stretch of the forest. Now she could hear bullets striking the trees around them, but that was exactly what she was wanting. Better a tree be hit than Harris or herself.

Her lips, numb from the cold, silently mouthed each word of the prayer now. She only focused on the fact she could feel Harris still behind her. Other than that, she simply had to trust that he would hold on and try to kill anybody that got too close. Each tree seemed to be coming towards them way too fast, and it took every ounce of resistance she had to not jerk the snowmobile to one way or the other in a reflex action. It only took a slight nudge, and they would whiz past the tree harmlessly.

There was a small city nearby, and if they could even get close, they could walk the rest of the way. There, they could get...something...done. Angela couldn't fathom just leaving the others behind, but Harris was wounded and while she may have been able to hold her own against one or two soldiers, an entire cadre of them was a whole different matter.

The ground began to decline sharply, and Angela made a short cry as the snowmobile nosed forward. Leaning back, she gritted her teeth as she felt the snowmobile resist against the action. Stifling a gasp as he felt his ribs creak threateningly under the action, Harris leaned back as far as he dared, keeping his arm tightly wrapped around Angela.

It worked, and the snowmobile plowed through the white drifts, staying upright for a few moments before lurching forward once it was back on level ground.

"Harris?!" Angela called.

"I'm fine!" Harris yelled through gritted teeth. It was a blatant lie, though. His side felt like it had a fire set right to it, and he could taste blood in his mouth.


End file.
